


Bruises and Bitemarks

by TheDevilsFeet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, BAMF John, Bruises, Cock Slapping, Jealous John, Lace Panties, M/M, Massage, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Power Play, Protective Mycroft, Riding Crops, Sex Toys, Swearing, Violent Sex, light BSDM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2017-12-16 05:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 49,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/858335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDevilsFeet/pseuds/TheDevilsFeet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of kinky Johnlock porn that has some semblance of a plot in the first three chapters.  John and Lestrade are conspiring against Sherlock to make him go to a dance the Yard is hosting, despite the fact that he really needs to do some PR, Sherlock does his best to stay home.  Cue lots of violent, kinky shagging.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Office Shag

**Author's Note:**

> Basically this is going to have violent, semi public, profane office shagging. We hope you enjoy it! The incomparable Calabash lends her hand to John Watson, and I, the lesser being, struggle along as Sherlock Holmes.

A noise that sounded suspiciously like bird song reached Sherlock's ears; he twitched his nose and frowned in his sleep. He didn't want to wake up, not yet, not while John was still in bed by his side. Sherlock threw his arm out, searching for John. He wasn't there. A silver eye slit open and peered out over a fluffy pillow. There was an indent in the bed where John had been. It had gone cold; Sherlock groaned a little and rolled over into the middle of the bed. John must have gone in to work early. He licked his lips and blinked in the early morning sun. John forgot to close the curtains, though it was understandable considering previous night's activities... With a yawn, the detective stretched his arms out and rolled onto his side. That's when his eyes fell on the freshly made bed. His face twitched. John had made a convincing argument last night about the particular print on the fabric, but Sherlock was still unsure how to feel about them. To his left Sherlock heard his phone let out an obscene noise. "Aaaah...Sh...sher...aaa! More! Moore..Oh gooood!" The detective's lips quirked. John hated his new text alert noise with a passion, but Sherlock refused to change it. He liked how red it made John, how angry it made him, how aroused he sounded in it. Oh yes, Sherlock would never change it. Rolling over he snatched up the mobile and gazed at it, a smile creeping on his still sleepy face.

_Good morning, Sherlock. Have a nice day. – JW_

Sherlock rubbed his eyes, yawned and then typed his reply.

_Good morning. It is nice sleeping in clean sheets, though I'm still not quite so sure about this… pattern. – SH_

* * *

John felt his trouser pocket vibrate as he knelt in front of a frightened child at the clinic, his weathered hand warm and soothing on the boy's shoulder. He spoke to him in soothing tones as he examined him. The child had a viral infection. Simple enough. Unlike Sherlock, John actually liked children. He remembered exactly how it felt to be a little boy, remembered the joys and fears of childhood. He rolled his eyes a little at that thought... Sherlock didn't like children because he didn't understand them. Sherlock had never been a child, John was sure of it. He'd always been the bright eyed, analytical genius he was now, and perhaps that was why little bursts of pouting infancy came leaking out of him occasionally. Sherlock never had a childhood, and he was making up for it now. John slipped his hand in his pocket, scanned the text. He smiled gently. Excusing himself from the examination room, he shuffled down the hall to his office, fingers lightly tapping the mobile keyboard.

_What's wrong with my sheets, Sherlock? Everything doesn't have to be stark white. I like the pattern. – JW_

He slid the phone back in his pocket, and called out to the nurse for the next chart.

* * *

Sherlock was ambling around the flat in an oversized shirt that John had bought him last week when he'd complained about his pyjama trousers being too hot. He was absentmindedly pushing things in place when his phone sounded out again. Sherlock smirked and shook his head. _Really?_ He rather loved the fact that John still had those childish sheets, but Sherlock wasn't used to them being on HIS bed. He was used to his white sheets. These were...different.

_Yes, but dogs wearing scarves? – SH_

_Paw prints? Pine trees? – SH_

Not a few seconds after he sent the texts off he received another one. Sherlock looked at his mobile and made a face. Lestrade. He growled and muttered darkly under his breath. The man had been hounding him for days now to go to some dance that everyone at the Yard would be going to. Sherlock did NOT want to go.

_Lestrade is still insisting I go to that dance. Are you sure you can't get away from the clinic? – SH_

Sherlock hoped John would have an excuse to get out of it. The detective would be there with bells on if John would only get that night off, but unfortunately John had insisted that he could not leave the clinic.

* * *

_Can't. Sorry. – JW_

John actually laughed out loud as he shot off the reply. Served Sherlock right, making fun of his worn, comfortable sheets. All right then, so Harry'd given them to him for Christmas, and they were a little ostentatious, but that wasn't the point then, was it? Sherlock needed a little more color in his life, and this dance Lestrade had invited them to was just the ticket. Greg had all but come out and said that Sherlock had to attend if he ever wanted another case thrown his way. To regain the trust of the local police after the Richard Brook scandal, he had to do a little PR. And John was all for it. He couldn't imagine a single thing in the world better for Sherlock Holmes than being forced to socialize amidst a sea of tuxedos and evening gowns, surrounded by the people whom he belittled each and every day. John wished desperately he could attend. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hoped that Sherlock would be coerced into dancing with that sergeant who'd taken a shine to him last month on that kidnapping case. Oh, he'd pay good money to see that. But it was not to be. He simply had to work. But he was delighted that Greg hadn't given up on Sherlock even though John was not there to field the more… awkward moments. The invitation had gone out to them both, and secretly, he'd been conspiring with Lestrade for weeks; Sherlock would not be won by force; it required finesse. Coercion. And John was just the man for the job. He attended to his patients absentmindedly, waiting for the buzz in his pocket with a little too much pleasure.

* * *

Sherlock sighed laboriously. John was up to something, it was obvious, he just wasn't sure what it was.

_I wouldn't mind going if I could go to the dance with you. – SH_

He pouted and toed John's arm chair moodily. He did not want to go.

* * *

John sighed, glancing at the clock. He wished it was lunch time. He was peckish. He tiptoed back to his office again, laboriously avoiding Sarah's watchful eye, and he slid into his chair, fumbling about in his desk for the bag of crisps he left there the day before. He sat for several moments, breathing through his nose, crunching, and scrolling through his old texts. He smiled a bit. Sherlock had sent him some... interesting messages as of late. Some of them still made his cheeks heat. He flicked back to the last one, unwilling to let himself become aroused mid-morning when he had a day full of patients ahead of him, and no Sherlock until late evening, after the dance. John furrowed his brow. Sherlock hadn't bought anything new to wear tonight... he would need something more appropriate than his every day gorgeous black suit. A tie at the very least.

_Sherlock, I would pay a half a year's salary to watch you dance. But no. What are you wearing? – JW_

* * *

As he read the text he felt irked. John was going to keep prodding him to get something to wear to the dance. Sherlock snarled a little at the question and sat down hard on John's chair, crossing his arms and tapping his toes. He waited five whole minutes before whipping out his mobile and with an evil smile on his face typed in an answer. Sherlock was going to avoid the dance and the question for as long as he possibly could, and what better way to do that than distract his doggedly insistent lover. But before he sent the text he shook his head. _No, not yet_. First he would play the sympathy card.

_I don't dance. That's the whole point. Lestrade just wants to humiliate me for the texts I sent during that high profile case. Not my fault he got the information wrong. – SH_

* * *

John winced, hunched over the nurse's station. Sarah walked round the corner, and he whipped the mobile under his jumper, tossing her a quick smile and a nod. She answered in kind, and he waited until she was back in her office before typing out,

_I feel a little responsible for that, Sherlock. I wish I could make it up to you by coming to the dance. Now that I think about it, I bet you're gorgeous on the dance floor. – JW_

There. An apology and a bit of flattery. It didn't do much to soothe the guilt. John knew he shouldn't have left his mobile where Lestrade could access it, and he did feel responsible. Sherlock told him everything, but they couldn't expect anyone else to understand that. And John was just glad that Lestrade only saw the texts related to the case.. not the more... personal ones. He stood for a moment longer, chin in his hand, eyes half closed. What _would_ Sherlock look like on a dance floor? It was an intriguing thought. Would he be gangly? Awkward? Or graceful and fluid? John pushed off of the countertop, inhaling through his nose tremulously. _Probably the latter_.

* * *

Sherlock flushed, John thought he'd look gorgeous? Well...maybe... No! He was not playing into that and... a frown settled on his lips once again. _Responsible?_ What was John talking about? Sherlock had assumed Lestrade had looked for John's mobile and then read their texts out of pure curiosity. After all, that's what Sherlock would have done. But...

_Responsible? Were you talking to Lestrade? I don't dance, John. I never learnt how, or if I did, I forgot it a long time ago. – SH_

* * *

Yeah. John wasn't about to talk about this. It would just end up getting Sherlock all riled again at Greg. He needed Sherlock to be on his best behaviour tonight. So instead, he concentrated on the dancing comment, and grinned.

_Yes but that long lean body in formal wear undulating to music? Oh bloody hell, I have to try and get out of work. – JW_

He meant it. How was he supposed to think about ailments and patients when all he could see was Sherlock, attempting to move his hips, gyrate, oh... _damn_. John swallowed dryly. If Sherlock playing his violin was sensual... and it really, truly was... how arousing would it be so see him _dance_?

* * *

_Oh, I was wondering... Did you mean what I'm wearing now or to the dance? You might be interested in both considering what I have or don't have on at this very moment – SH_

Sherlock glanced down at his bare legs and stretched them out languidly. Perhaps he would have to acquire a new suit for the dance. If there was even a slim chance that John was going to show up, well, Sherlock wanted to make John's eyes light on fire.

* * *

John chuckled, his eyes drifting from the paperwork before him to the mobile screen. Oh, Sherlock wanted to play? He shifted in his chair, wishing he'd stayed home today, wishing he'd called in sick, wishing he, too, could sit at home and simply wait for a case to fall in his lap. In the waiting room, a toddler was screeching. John sighed.

_I meant to the dance, you bad man, but… if you're offering... – JW_

* * *

'Oh, John... let's play.' Sherlock loved this game, he really did. This was the game where he'd say themost lascivious things he could possibly think of and see how long John could last.

_Hmmm… it might be easier just to tell you what I'm not wearing, on the other hand… easy is boring. – SH_

One of Sherlock's hands slid down his chest and fiddled with the hem of his red shirt. He knew John would go ape-shit if he knew what Sherlock had underneath the shirt

* * *

_Oh no_. John flushed at his desk. This was a very bad idea. He loved this game, as much as Sherlock did. It had become a sort of foreplay with them; if Sherlock was heading home from a case, or John from the clinic, they would start the evening's antics before they even saw one another. Their texts would shift slowly from playful to sensual to downright explicit until they were both so worked up that by the time they were in one another's arms again, the coupling would be frantic and insanely debaucherous. But... it was midday! John licked his lips, glancing at the clock. Nearly noon. He felt the skitter of expectant arousal in his flesh, and his breath deepened.

_What, you're not… Oh. Sherlock, you're not wearing knickers beneath your trousers again, are you – JW_

He'd been known to do that. Taking a cab to a crime scene, John's young lover would lean over and whisper to him that he had no shorts on beneath his tight black trousers, then sit back and watch as John panted and whimpered for him all day. Sherlock was such a sadist. It would inevitably wind up with John on his knees in the closest dark corner the moment no one was looking, Sherlock's hands tangled in his hair, moans ripping from that long throat as the good doctor sucked him vigorously. Sometimes, if they could find a quiet spot, Sherlock would fuck him, fast, hard, and silent. John liked that very much. He leaned back in his chair, a sudden stirring between his legs alerting him to the fact that he was not going to be able to wait until after the dance. He groaned, snatching the mobile again.

_You know what that does to me, damn you. Can you come by the surgery on my break? – JW_

* * *

Sherlock started massaging himself slowly, his lips parted. His hips rotated a little and he let out a quiet moan.

_Who said I'm wearing trousers? – SH_

He let out his breath in a hiss, should he wank here or should he go to see John? Sherlock closed his eyes and imagined John sucking him off, his shoulders heaving, his cheeks pink, an erection straining against his jeans. Yes, that would be more fun than a solitary wank.

_Does your door lock? I'll be there in 10 minutes. – SH_

After a little bit he let out another long breath and smirked.

_Two words, John. Black lace. – SH_

There. If that didn't drive John crazy, then Sherlock did not know his army doctor.

* * *

John shook his head. He knew Sherlock, knew how eager he got at the prospect of a sexual encounter. He was ever the addict, and John was his new fix. He wriggled in his chair, and gasped as Sarah popped her head in the door. "John, Mrs. Tesfield is waiting in exam room four."

"Ta," he managed, very aware of the pink in the apples of his cheeks. She lifted an eyebrow, but disappeared. John blew all the air out of his lungs.

_Ten minutes. I will finish with the last patient. Be wearing trousers, but not knickers. I want to taste you. Fuck! I want you on my chair, I want to crawl under my desk and taste you. And the door locks from the inside. Sarah has a key but she won't barge in if she sees us go in. She isn't daft. - JW_

He jumped up, straightening his clothes and scurrying off to get rid of the last patient before his lunch break, before Sherlock came.

He was supervising an injection when the next text came in. His pocket vibrated, and John's heart leapt. He continued to murmur soft, encouraging sounds to the fresh, new nurse, his hand sliding into his pocket and retrieving his phone. His grey blue eyes drifted momentarily to the screen. _Black lace…_

"SHIT!"

The nurse jumped, and the patient howled, and John began rattling off apologies. Bloody hell, what was Sherlock thinking, sending him a text like that in the middle of his work day? Never mind that he was already aroused, never mind that they'd already made arrangements to shag on his lunch break… John's neck burned as he stayed a moment to finish up, and rushed to his office, slamming the door behind him, his chest heaving. He tore at the mobile phone, his fingers trembling on the buttons.

_BLACK LACE? FUCK. – JW_

He was rock hard.

* * *

Sherlock giggled as he saw John's reply. Oh yes, that did it. The sleuth was off the chair in less than a minute, on his way to their bedroom. He was aroused and in need of a good fuck especially in light of the evening ahead of him. _Dancing._

_Do you still want the knickers gone? – SH_

He stripped his shirt off and scrabbled about for a clean suit. John hadn't done the laundry last night, either, but Sherlock had been partly to blame for that.

* * *

_No, no, fuck no, leave the knickers. – JW_

_I'll chew through them. – JW_

John staggered to his desk, collapsing on the chair, his fingers grappling at the arms. The door was locked. John was done for the next hour. And he was so fucking hard. Sherlock... Sherlock had never done anything like this before. He closed his eyes, his entire body rippling with the conjured images that danced in his mind, and John moaned lowly. He wanted that man. He wanted him bent over this desk, with... black lace. Black lace... John could almost feel the texture against his cheek... his lips... his teeth. He began to pant softly, and palm the front of his tented trousers. Sherlock needed to Get. Here. Now.

* * *

Sherlock found what he was looking for, the suit. Sliding it over his long legs, the legs that he'd shaved last night after John had fallen asleep. Sherlock knew John liked his legs, he knew that John loved to stroke his legs and kiss them. The sleuth wanted to know if John would like his legs even better if they were smooth, like a woman's. God, the fabric felt great against his legs, oh, he'd have to do this again. Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a little whine. The lace, the silk, it was almost too much to bear. He'd been planning on fucking John but this...

_I'm going to wear your favourite suit. You know, the black one that's, how did you put it, just a little too tight in all the right places? – SH_

* * *

John hissed, chewing on his lip. He wouldn't be wearing it for long...

_Oh yes please, Sherlock. Shit, I can't go out there like this. – JW_

His hand pressed hard against his erection, and John exhaled shakily. He would never get enough of this man.

* * *

Sherlock was half way to the door before he got the text. John was hard and ready and Sherlock was.. Sherlock needed to be fucked. Fucked hard. He imagined John pushing him down over his desk, papers flying everywhere in their frenzy. Sherlock saw John pulling the lace panties down with his teeth, he saw him taking Sherlock in his mouth, biting him, sucking him, wanting him, fucking him. 'Oh god!'

_The silk fabric is delightful on my smooth legs. I didn't realize how sensual cloth could feel on shaved skin. – SH_

Sherlock opened the door. He did not want John to know how turned on he was, he did not want John to know how frantic he was, how he was already hailing a cabbie and giving him directions.

* * *

John blinked at Sherlock's text for several seconds before he remembered to breathe. He... had a thing for Sherlock's legs. They were long, and slender, and beautifully shaped. They were awkward at times, like a new born foal, but worked magnificently in a pursuit. He was like a gazelle, strong and limber, able to do things the human body should not be capable of. And that included their experiences in the bedroom. Those legs were perfectly wonderful in every way. John liked to suck the hollow behind his knee, liked to spend hours just running his fingertips over the lines of his thighs and calves and... He shuddered.

… _What? You shaved? Why did you shave your legs, Sherlock? – JW_

John wanted to touch. Wanted so very badly to touch. He shook himself, his fingers flying again.

_Not that I mind. – JW_

Hell no, he didn't mind. He wanted. He needed. He was going to fuck Sherlock… so… hard.

* * *

Sherlock palmed himself surreptitiously, letting out tiny little whines. His mobile let out John's moan and that only made things worse. From the corner of his eye he could see the cabbie turn red and start at the sound of his alert tone. Sherlock smiled. He liked unsettling people. Now, what could he do to make John want him even more?

_I'm putting my trousers on. They look so nice with what I have underneath. – SH_

* * *

He's still at the flat? John glanced at the clock again, his entire face turning beet red. At this rate, he wouldn't have time to... to... well, to do all the wicked and completely depraved things he wanted to do to Sherlock. John felt a spike of anger as he closed his fist over his cock through his trousers, his body quivering. Damn him damn him damn him...

_Daaaamn it Sherlock! Get your arse over here, I'm going to rodger you good. – JW_

John closed his eyes again, squirming. He rarely got to drive into Sherlock; his lover definitely preferred the dominant position. That was fine with John. He could lie back and let Sherlock pound him for hours, his lover was just that good. But... today… John felt an overbearing urge to take that lean body, make it his own. "Oh, Sherlock.. fuckkk..." he moaned into his fist, frustration pumping steadily through his temples with every beat of his stalwart heart.

* * *

Sherlock's breath was coming in short gasps, he wanted John so badly. The cabbie was speeding just a little; he wanted Sherlock out of the car right now. Sherlock looked at him for a moment, reading his whole life's story. Diabetic, approximately 45 years old, chain smoker, chewed with the right side of his mouth due to a bad cavity, happily married for 15 years, two kids. The picture on his dash was one with a plain woman and both boys, one of them was missing half of his face. There were two reasons Sherlock could think of for that; most likely the boy was gay and his father did not approve. Having Sherlock in the cab only rubbed that fact in his face. Sherlock smiled and texted John again, turning up the ring tone just a little louder.

_My coat is on but I don't know how long I can wait, John. Can I make it to your office? I'm so hard already. The lace, the silk… feels so good. – SH_

* * *

There was a knock at the door. John looked up, startled, from his frantic texting, and he stumbled to the door. He unlocked it, and turned on his heel to hide the evidence of his activities. He slid behind his desk as the new nurse entered, mumbling apologies for the fumbled injection and bearing a cup of tea. John waved his hand dismissively, stammering out placating words which he did not even register before they came tumbling out. She placed the cup on the corner of his desk and beat a hasty retreat, and John sat, staring at the tea, the blood thundering in his ears.

_YOU can't wait? I could barely get up from my desk and see my last patient! GET OVER HERE NOW. If you toss in the flat instead, I will make you pay dearly. – JW_

He felt unreasonably angry with Sherlock. He was a fucking tease, and John _was_ going to have him, whether right now in his office, or back home at the flat that evening. And if Sherlock made him wait that long... oh yes, he would make him pay, he would make him scream.

* * *

Sherlock's phone sang out again and he chuckled. Oh John, he was so gullible.

_Oh but that sounds so good… ah! John, every time I move. These trousers are so tight. – SH_

* * *

_Shit. Just tell me now if you're not coming, I am wanking here because it fucking hurts, I want you now, I want to suck you, I want to fuck you, Sherlock. – JW_

He sounded pathetic and he knew it. And he bloody well didn't care. He moaned again, cursing.

* * *

Oh, that was too much. That was...that sounded perfect. He wanted John inside him so badly. He thought of John's hot, hard cock, ready to split him open. John was short, sturdy, muscular, and he knew how to make Sherlock scream until his throat was hoarse.

_I'm on my way, in the cab. Don't you dare fucking touch yourself before I get there. I want you in me. I want to feel your cock pounding me. I want that mouth of yours around me. – SH_

Sherlock was not playing around anymore.

* * *

"Oh shit," John whispered, and a rash of goose flesh broke out on his arms, chest, thighs. His cock was straining beneath his trousers, and he gave it a quick squeeze as if to say, _it's all right, he's coming, Sherlock is coming_... He reached up on his desk and buzzed the intercom. "Margaret? I have a visitor arriving shortly. Sherlock Holmes. Send him on in, will you?" His voice was shaking. Margaret sounded odd on the other end. "Yes, Dr. Watson." John leaned back in his chair again, humming in anticipation. Oooooh, yes, he was going to ride Sherlock. Ride him good and hard.

_Hurry then. Just picturing you in black lace may make me shoot my load in my knickers. – JW_

* * *

_You won't have to picture for long. I'm almost there. The cabbie keeps giving me looks. Perhaps it's because of the little sounds I keep making whenever I think about how hot and hard you are, and how I'm going to be bent over your desk and fucked ruthlessly. – SH_

Sherlock was standing outside of the building, just standing there for a little while before entering the hospital, his coat pulled around him, hiding his raging hard on from the world. John was waiting for him.

* * *

John wasn't stifling the groans now. Hell yes, _hell_ yes. He snarled, arching in his chair, carefully unzipping his trousers and pulling out his erection. He didn't touch it... no, Sherlock was explicit in his instructions. But John wanted to look. He wanted to see it, dark and throbbing and shiny, wanted to stare down at his own cock and think about it taking Sherlock apart, moment by moment, thrust by thrust. His breath caught.

_Too right you are. I am going to have to stuff that scarf in your mouth because you going to be screaming so loud you'd alert the entire street. – JW_

_I'm going to devastate you, Sherlock. I'm going to demolish that arse. – JW_

Perhaps... just one touch. John's finger trailed up the underside of his engorged length, and wracks of pleasure shot through him. He whimpered. Poor Sherlock. Poor, unsuspecting Sherlock.

_You won't be able to run on rooftops for a month after I'm done with you. – JW_

* * *

Sherlock let out one last tiny whine, shuddering with anticipation as he read John's texts. He couldn't wait any longer. Taking long strides, practically running, he burst through the doors, looking wildly about before returning John's text.

_Oh god. Promise? - SH_

The detective stormed down the hall, his coat hands shoved in his coat pockets, hiding his erection, all the while gripping the mobile phone so hard his knuckles were white, the ends of his coat flapping behind him.

_Oh god, oh fuck, oh god. I'm in the building. Be at your door. – SH_

* * *

He's here. John spread his legs in his desk chair, and threw his head back, panting, trying desperately not to wank. He was here. In a few short moments, he would be ramming his cock into Sherlock's tight hole, and listening to the debaucherous mewlings of his stoic lover. "mmm.. oooh..." John was already moaning. He shivered, his cock glistening and slick.

_I swear on my father's grave. You'll be squirming like a horny virgin on her wedding night. I am going to make you forget your fucking name. – JW_

* * *

Sherlock licked his lips as he stood in the lift, he was not allowing himself to touch his cock, no, Sherlock was waiting for John to suck him dry. Every single time his phone went off Sherlock felt a jolt of electricity run up his spine. John Watson was a devil.

_Where. Is. The. Fucking. Office? – SH_

* * *

Fuck fuck fuck what was taking him so fucking long? John was practically grinding himself down on the creaking office chair, and the urge to touch himself was growing positively overwhelming. He growled, desperation clinging to his voice, and he grabbed at the mobile swiftly.

_Sherlock! I am on the second floor. It's not hard to find! Suite 207. Walk in, tell them your name. They're expecting you. My door is unlocked, come in, I am waiting for you. – JW_

Now, now, fucking NOW. _Fuck_ , he needed Sherlock. John's cock pulsed in agreement.

* * *

Sherlock was running now, his cock was throbbing, his head was spinning, his throat was dry. There! He spotted it.

'Hello, I'm Sherlock Holmes.' Sherlock leaned against the desk and smiled winningly down at the receptionist, his cheeks flushed with anticipation.

She stared at him, her eyes bulging just a little. Sherlock resisted an urge to snap at her; he thought John had told her he was coming.

'Uuuuh, Sher...Oh! That's right!' She said, returning his smile with a shy one of her own. 'Dr Watson said you'd be stopping by.'

Sherlock almost growled. He did not have time for small talk. Instead he whipped out his phone and sent John a hurried text.

_I'm running. Fuck. That receptionist's look… I think I may have ruined your reputation. I see the door. – SH_

Sherlock could hear her asking him how he knew John; he could hear her trying to make small talk. He jiggled his leg impatiently before putting his hands down on the desk, a little harder than was needed, and staring her directly in the eyes.

'Which way to his office?' he intoned dangerously. Sherlock Holmes was not a patient man.

* * *

John was up and across the room in three steps. He stood next to the door, waiting, leaning against the wall. He did not bother undressing... he would not need to. All he needed was Sherlock, naked and shaking below him, legs spread, arse in the air... He moaned aloud again as familiar, clicking heels sounded outside of his office, down the hall. Sherlock.

_I hear you… Ohh, Sherlock… Hurry… – JW_

His fingers trembled as they typed, and he stared at the screen as the footsteps halted. He waited, holding his breath.

* * *

The woman's face turned from a pleasant normal, slightly flushed colour to white and then bright red when Sherlock's mobile sounded out. 'R-right down that way.' She pointed, swallowing hard and pointedly not looking at Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't pay her a second thought; instead he turned on his heels and walked to the door, his legs eating up the space with every stride. _Soon._

_I'm here. – SH_

Sherlock pushed open the door.

The door swung open slowly, and John was immediately assaulted with the smell of Sherlock's shampoo, his fragrant coat, his aftershave. It was liquid sex, pheromones and sweat and skin and Sherlock. John stifled the groan. He stood behind the door, and Sherlock couldn't see him yet. He could feel the confusion radiating from his lover as he stared at the empty desk. John waited until he was fully within the office before placing a flat palm on the door, pushing it out of Sherlock's hands, and slamming it shut. Sherlock whirled about, his eyes wide, and John wasted no time. He grabbed a handful of coat and shoved him backwards, delighting as Sherlock took in the sight of his aching erection, that full mouth rounding in a perfect "O". John pushed him down into the desk chair and straddled him, rubbing his cock against his chest, shivering at the roughness of the woolen coat on his heated flesh. "Took you long enough," he snarled, tangling fingers in Sherlock's curls, pulling him up for a violent kiss. He nipped at him, licked at him, amazed at the electric shocks of pleasure already washing over him. Sherlock's hands had found his buttocks, and were kneading there.

Sherlock gasping for breath as they broke off the volatile kiss. He bucked into John, needing friction. His senses were heightened, his mind was going crazy. John was acting so demanding, so fucking dominant, and Sherlock couldn't get enough. Sherlock wanted John to take him, Sherlock wanted John to rip and bite and tear and suck and lick and eat him. 'I...aaaa! I'm sorry.' he panted, moving against John's body. He didn't care that he sounded pathetic and submissive. He was. John was in charge. Sherlock let out a cry of pain and pleasure as John yanked on his hair again, pulling his head back as far as it could go before stripping the scarf off and biting Sherlock's exposed neck.

"Mmm, fuck, Sherlock..." John sank his teeth into the smoothness of his flesh, and his lust went onto overdrive. His hands were everywhere, pushing wool down, yanking at buttons, pulling, peeling, exposing white skin, as creamy and soft as orchid petals. He sat up quite suddenly with a sharp inhale, his steel blue eyes focusing on Sherlock's gaping face. John grinned, thrusting his hips forward, and rocking his arse down on Sherlock's erection. "Ohhh... come on then, Sherlock, let's see those pretty legs." With one last thrust, John slid off of his lap and knelt before him, unzipping his trousers swiftly and yanking them down. A strangled cry ripped from John's chest. "Sherlock... Sherlock... OH FUCK..."

Sherlock gasped and closed his legs a little at the sudden rush of cool air hit his erection. The lace panties did nothing to cover his long, hard cock, already dripping with precum; it stuck out demanding attention, angry that it had to wait for so long. Sherlock squirmed a little as John just stared at him. 'No... no good?' He panted, his hands moving to try and hide it.

Yes, he had been a little self-conscious about wearing them, he had been curious as to how John would react. Sherlock was almost positive John would love them, now the truth would be told. Sherlock waited, practically holding his breath. His lips parted, his cheeks flushed, his eyes wide, his coat dangling from the chair, his shirt had been ripped open and was hanging from his arms, black lace panties tightly hugging his hips, his pants pooled around his ankles.

"Oh... good, Sherlock." John darted forward, licking at the cock head that peeked out of the panties, and Sherlock keened. John breathed heavily into the space between Sherlock's legs, his eyes on the detective, memorizing every twitch, every little body movement, every whimper. "Very good Sherlock. You're so fucking beautiful." And he was. Sherlock looked amazing, spread out, dishevelled, submissive, willing... waiting. John groaned deeply, and buried his face in his crotch, biting and licking at the black lace. His teeth found a hold in them, and he yanked back, head pulling, jaw flexing, teeth tearing as he freed more of that delicious cock. "So fucking beautiful," he repeated hoarsely, the smell of Sherlock's skin filling him, driving him mad. His hands began to play at Sherlock's ankles, and they slid up, up his calves, to his knees, his thighs... his balls. _So smooth. Like silk._

Sherlock twitched and writhed in response to John's attention. His heart was beating wildly against his chest. He could feel John's breath on his legs, feel the teeth pulling the panties down, feel those gorgeous callused hands stroking up his legs, loving him, caressing his thighs with two perfect thumbs before touching his balls. Sherlock could no longer hold back the cries of pleasure. He forgot that there were other people outside this room, that there was even a world outside the room. 'John, oh god, John! I love you, I love you!' He threw his arms around John's neck, bending over and smothering his face in the sweet smelling hair atop his cruel lover's head. 'Hurt me, John, make me scream. Take me. Don't play around. Come on.' He bucked his hips again, hoping for retaliation.

John grinned into the baby soft flesh of Sherlock's inner thigh, and then WHACK! His brilliant lover gasped and cried out as John's open palm smacked his hip, smartly. Sherlock wriggled in the chair, moaning, and John leaned in, biting at the base if his cock, still covered in black stretch lace. "I'll take you when I'm good and ready," he growled, laying another smack on Sherlock's outer thigh. John nuzzled his nose into the panties once more before drifting up, and taking that weeping cock into his mouth, inch after inch, humming the whole way. His own dick throbbed, and he stroked it slowly, languidly, grinning as Sherlock dissolved underneath him.

Sherlock threw his head back, tossing it around, his mouth opening and closing, making obscene noises. Long fingers curled in John's hair, trying to keep a hold on something, it felt as though there was no gravity, like he was falling, falling into the deep, dark ocean that was John Watson. Sherlock's hip burned from the force of the blows and he loved it, he could feel John's lips closing around his cock, feel him humming. Oh, John was a very bad man. 'More! Oh god!' Sherlock snapped his head back and looked at John's face. The detective's lips parted, he moved a hand back to his own chest as he pinched hard at one of his own nipples. 'Doctor,' he said, licking his lips, 'I've been so very, very naughty...' and he let out a low, guttural moan.

John's cock jumped as Sherlock purred those wicked words that he knew drove his soldier mad with desire. He began sucking Sherlock's cock in earnest, whimpering and canting his hips, unable to get enough friction. His tongue and teeth dragged along the veins and head of Sherlock's gorgeous prick, and he tasted the salt, the musky sweetness that leaked from the tip. This was one of the things that had surprised John the most about being with a man.. something he'd never imagined. John loved sucking dick. Sherlock's, to be quite specific. He felt his entire body jolt with the pleasure of it, with the fantastic perfection of devouring this most intimate part of the man he loved. No one had ever had Sherlock but John. And John liked it that way, very, very much. He let his right hand wander up Sherlock's body, and find the other rosy nipple, pinching it hard, twisting it, listening to Sherlock shout. John grinned around his cock, and dove in further. He'd push Sherlock to the very brink before giving him what he really needed... and what John needed. He needed it so bad he was going to make Sherlock think twice about ever asking him to fuck him again.

Sherlock could feel himself coming to a climax, he could feel it in the way everything suddenly became sharper, harder, more painful, more pleasurable. He rocked into John's mouth, pushing deeper and deeper. But this, this was not what Sherlock wanted. He hissed in impatience. He wanted John's fucking cock up his fucking arse, tearing him apart, shoving his face against the desk, slapping his buttocks, pounding him, making him scream and beg for mercy. 'John!' He pushed weakly against John's shoulders, 'John! Give it to me! Please, John, please, please. I need it. I need it.' He moved around, trying to push John away. 'Please, John, fuck me.'

"What?" John bit down on the head of Sherlock's cock, none too gently, and he twisted the nipple again, slapped his thigh sharply. "I didn't quite hear you, Sherlock. What do you want?" The flesh in his mouth pulsed hotly against his tongue, and John swirled it around the sensitive rim, scraping his teeth up, down, up again.

Sherlock whined and arched into the pain, his nipple throbbing, his cock ready to explode, his thigh stinging. 'I want YOU, JOHN. FUCK ME NOW. Please! Oh God, please! PLEASE. PLEASE JOHN I...AHh! I!' Every time he was about to say what he wanted, John would slap him again, bite down, causing him to writhe even more in desperation and need. 'Please John, FUCK ME! Push me up against that bloody desk of yours and pound into me until I have no voice left, until I break.' He pleaded, grabbing onto John's shoulders. He was shaking with need. Trying to hold back, trying not to cum.

"Beg me." John felt himself reel as the words fell from his lips. He could sense Sherlock's agony, could feel him coming apart, but... John's taste for the sadistic had just taken a very personal turn. He'd never had Sherlock like this before... at his mercy... pleading... needy. He may never see this Sherlock again. Tomorrow would be back to John on all fours, screaming as Sherlock's generous endowment pierced him open and made him turn into a quivering mass of John Watson jam, but today... "Beg me, Sherlock, or I'll leave you here in your fucking black panties, and I will watch as you fuck yourself on your own damn fingers because you're such a whore for my cock right now, aren't you? Fucking beg me, Sherlock."

Sherlock's mind raced. Beg? Beg? He would not be... 'Yes, John, I'm a fucking whore John, your whore, your slut. I need your cock, please, please.' Sherlock's arms slid back until they were resting on the arms of the chair, his hands grasped the metal and clenched, his toes curled, his legs tensed up. 'Fuck me, fuck me, I need you, I'm begging you. You own this little whore, so please, please fuck him good and hard.' Sherlock panted. He couldn't believe he was saying this, he never in his life would have thought...but, it was John, John made him do crazy things. John was his master, John was his life, John was his - 'OH GOD, PLEASE STICK THAT COCK INTO MY ARSE AND FUCK ME UNTIL I CAN'T SEE STRAIGHT.'

That was it. That was bloody all he could take. John thrust the chair away from him, grabbing at Sherlock's neck and pulling him in for a tearing, ripping embrace. His tongue forced his mouth wide open, and he explored every inch of that hot cavern before yanking him back by his hair, turning him about, and placing his elbow on the space between Sherlock's shoulder blades. The wool coat crumpled on the floor, and John let out a soft sob as he pushed Sherlock down, bent him over the desktop, his paperwork fluttering to the floor, scattering in all directions. Sherlock's hands were white knuckled on the far edge, and John stood back, one hand still pressing him down face first. He surveyed his work with a surge of pride. Sherlock was quaking, bare legged and begging, his shirt hanging from his forearm, arse in the air, scarcely covered in black lace panties. The round, smooth globes of his arse ducked below the lace hemline, inviting, and John took a moment to etch this picture into his memory forever. His name fell from Sherlock's bruised, swollen lips like honey. _John please fuck me, please fuck me, fuck me fuck me fuck me_... He would never forget the sound of it as long as he lived. John knelt briefly, digging his thumbs into Sherlock's hips roughly before tearing the panties from those slender hips. The rip echoed in the eerie stillness of his office, broken only by Sherlock's pornographic mantra.

Sherlock couldn't stop begging John, he needed it, he was so scared that John was just going to toy with him more. Suddenly he felt fingers press into his mouth. He knew what he had to do without John telling him. Sherlock sucked the digits; he was very adept at doing this sort of thing by now. He felt John shudder behind him as he flicked his tongue across those gorgeous fingers, wetting them as much as he could. He felt used, abused, beaten, owned, loved, tortured, and as horny as fuck. Sherlock couldn't help but move back a little; grind his arse into John's erection libidinously, savouring every jolt.

John nearly came as Sherlock's tongue began to slide, wet, thick, and warm between his fingers. He'd only given him two, but... fuck it felt so good... John shoved two more into his mouth, and began thrusting his rock hard cock against his arse, teasing, hungry for the glorious tightness that awaited him. Sherlock was still moaning and whimpering as he sucked John's fingers, eager and desperate, and John pulled them out with a loud groan. "Don't fight it, Sherlock," he whispered, hands shaking as he pressed two fingers against the red, flexing entrance. "Fast now. Ahhhhhh..." John inserted the digits, very swiftly, and Sherlock stiffened. John pet his back, his cock so hard it hurt, it literally hurt, so fucking bad, between his sturdy legs. "More, Sherlock?" He began to fuck him with those fingers, grinning maniacally at the string of cursing and cries that his lover let loose.

Sherlock's mind burst, he screamed and cried out, pushing against the fingers, rocking against them with all the force he could manage. 'More! More! Oh fuck! Oh God! Oh hell! Jesus Christ! Fuck me! More! Shit! FUCK ME! Harder! Harder! Harder!' Sherlock barely registered the hand on his back. He couldn't even string more than two words together at one time.

Another two fingers. John knew it was cruel. Fuck, it had to hurt. He wasn't being gentle, and he wasn't taking his time. But... His mind drifted momentarily to a dozen moments in their bedroom, Sherlock taking him with hardly any prep at all, Sherlock using all five, _ALL FIVE_ of his fucking fingers to stretch and tease John into a humiliated, but extremely satisfied pile of mush...

The riding crop.

John snarled again, and thrust the fingers in deep, laughing as Sherlock screamed into his forearms, his body welcoming and licentious. John fucked him once, twice, and then pulled all four out, replacing them with his purple, engorged cock. "Ready, Sherlock?" he grated out.

Sherlock nodded, practically sobbing from the pain and the need and the overwhelming pleasure. His arse hurt like hell, his thigh stung, his nipples were swollen and red, his lips were bruised, his cock was so hard it hurt, and oh god yes, he wanted more.

John smirked at his back. He had fulfilled his promise, Sherlock was completely undone, and he hadn't even fucked him yet. Sherlock couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but nod and moan and spread his legs. John massaged his buttocks for a few seconds. He did love him. Loved him more than his own soul. He sighed happily, one hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, holding him down, one on his hip, keeping him steady... and John rocked forward, his thick cock piercing Sherlock's lean body, forcing its way inside the velvet tunnel, wet and caressing. John's head fell back and he shouted, the pleasure so great, so unnerving, he barely kept his balance. Seated inside Sherlock Holmes, he was utterly and completely free. There was nothing else... no one else... but the squirming wonder of carnality as he began the rhythm, rotating, undulating, and Sherlock met him, thrust for thrust. "Yes... fuck yes, Sherlock... Talk to me, tell me how it feels to be fucked in the arse, tell me."

White stars were exploding in Sherlock's vision. John was pounding against him and hell, if Sherlock wasn't pushing back every time. The sounds of laboured breathing, skin slapping against skin, the wet sound of John's cock sliding in and out, the low, seductive murmur of John's voice, giving Sherlock a command. Sherlock had to obey. 'Feels..oh gaaaaaaddddddfuuuccccckkkk! It hurts but, ah! Ah! Good! Better..goo..great..fuck! Fan..taaaas...oh fuck! John! So good, so hot!' Sherlock's arms felt like jelly, his cheek was pressed hard against the smooth desktop, his cock was so close. So close. John kept thrusting into him, every time Sherlock widened around him, ate him up, begged for more. Being fucked in the arse by John Watson was one of the best fucking feelings in the world, and Sherlock would have gladly admitted that if he could only articulate.

" _Fuck yeahhhh_ ," John ground through grated teeth, a wide smile plastered on his face as he looked down, watching himself impale that white body, and he grabbed a headful of dark curls, twisting it. Sherlock cried out, his face turning so John could see the frozen ecstasy on Sherlock's exotic features, and John reached around, once more torturing his abused nipples as he rode him. This was… brilliant. The best thing that had ever happened to John in his entire life, and he had an ashtray from Buckingham Palace. So that was saying something. "Sherlock, you're mine, my whore, mine," he gasped, and Sherlock gave a low, pleading growl in agreement. John shuddered, his thrusts quickening, and becoming swiftly frantic _. So good_ … Sherlock's tight body spasmed around him, and he slapped his palm against one smooth, satiny leg, laughing and choking with pleasure as Sherlock jolted, crying out. "Fuckkkk, you love that, don't you…" He groaned aloud as Sherlock nodded, almost imperceptibly. John saw it though, and he smacked him again. And again. And again, until Sherlock was sobbing into the desk. John felt his heart twist. His lover was waiting… for permission. He bent, resting his head for one moment on his back, his cock continuing to piston in and out, hard, oh, so very hard and fast. "Yeah, Sherlock, fuck... ooooh... I want you to cum for me, all over my desk; let me see you cum for me, just from my big cock plowing your arse... Now, Sherlock..." John leaned down, biting his ear, and he sounded to himself like a mad man. Completely deranged, and dangerous. Very dangerous. "NOW SHERLOCK."

Sherlock felt himself be lifted by his hair, he did not fight, he could not fight. John had overpowered all of his senses; John had filled up the hard drive that was Sherlock's brain. He registered John's voice in his ear, cum... Sherlock obeyed. He let loose, he hadn't even realised he'd been holding back. All over the desk, reaching the floor, even. He could feel John still thrusting into him and it propelled him even more, again and again, his seed spurted out over the furniture until with one final moan, his body seized up and he collapsed back into John. He could feel the sturdy arm in the middle of his back, still grasping onto his hair, still pulling, his other hand was still bruising and abusing Sherlock's poor red nipples. It was glorious.

John felt Sherlock cum, felt the tightening of his muscles all over his straining body, felt the rush of air fill his lungs, felt his heart stutter. Then he was shooting, thick white sperm all over John's hand, his arm, the desk, the carpet, his computer, his paperwork. The sight was without a doubt the most grotesquely delicious thing John had ever seen, a twisted, beautiful testament to their love. Sherlock did not scream, but froze with his mouth open wide, gaping, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, and as John slid in that final time, Sherlock sagged against him, whimpering. The sound pushed him over. "OHH FUUUUUUCK!" John shrieked to the walls, clutching his lover's body close, and he unloaded into Sherlock, pulse after pulse, burning and divine. It was, truly, the single most enlightening experience of John's life... to be buried deep within Sherlock Holmes. They collapsed together on the top of the desk, gasping for breath. Neither spoke for several minutes.

The two of them lay there, breathing in tandem, hearts pounding, heat slowly dissipating. Sherlock loved this, John's cock inside him, the semen trying to ooze out around it. 'John...' he said slowly, after what seemed like forever, 'I have never begged before in my life.'

John snorted against his back, nestling closer, his arms winding around him in a possessive embrace. "Hm," he hummed with a little smile and a great deal of self satisfaction. "Can't say that now, can you?" He pressed his cheek to the small of his back, muttering under his breath. "Bloody bitch could take lessons from me."

Sherlock chuckled weakly, and let out a long sigh. 'I lo-' suddenly a moaning noise erupted from his phone. 'Who the bloody fuck is texting me?' He hissed angrily, not wanting to push up, only wanting to stay here with John. Sherlock groaned. 'Off. Now.'

Playtime was over. John sighed and rolled off of him meekly, scurrying for soft paper towels. He cleaned himself up as best he could as Sherlock knelt, searching for his mobile amidst the pile of clothes on the floor. "Who is it?" he asked softly, moving to give Sherlock the same gentle treatment.

Sherlock swore, half tempted to toss the damn electronic out the nearest window. 'Fucking Lestrade reminding me the fucking dance starts at fucking eight.' He snarled. Sherlock had completely forgotten about the whole thing. 'John,' he looked at John, 'do I have to go?'

"Yes," John said simply, having done with his cleaning ministrations. He buttoned Sherlock back into his shirt, tucked it into wrinkled trousers, replaced his jacket and coat. "Lestrade has been kind to you, Sherlock. He doesn't ask much. You'll go, make an appearance, dance with a few female constables, and come home. To me." John stood on his toes and kissed Sherlock's full lips lightly. "Come on, I'll walk you out."

Sherlock muttered darkly as John kissed him and gently but firmly took him by the elbow and led him out of the room.

They made their way down the hall, through the waiting room, and John glanced at reception. Sarah and the nurses were huddled, holding patient files, murmuring to Margaret. John smiled to himself. Thank God for thick walls. There were no patients waiting, and he wondered briefly if he would be able to take off early after all, surprise Sherlock at the dance. The thought pleased him. He walked him to the lift, and found himself looking up into those icy eyes, shyly. "Love you," John said, his cheeks pink. Had he just shagged Sherlock in his office? Violently?

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at the demure expression. He loved John so much. His arse was a testament to it. Sherlock would have never let anyone else treat him like that, never let anyone else touch him like that. 'I love you, too.' He briefly leaned down and rested his head against John's. 'I love you, too.' Sherlock inhaled deeply before straightening up. 'Are you sure you can't come? I'll dress as dashing as I know how; I'll sweep you off your feet in front of everyone.' Sherlock grinned cheekily. He knew the answer and deep down it made him a little sad, a little nervous, but he also knew that when he came home John would be there with a cup of hot tea and probably an offer for a massage.

"I can't, Sherlock, I'm sorry." John had no intention of telling his young lover of his plans. He'd take off early, go put on the only suit he owned, and surprise Sherlock at the dance. Maybe... maybe this time, he'd allow Sherlock to sweep him off his feet. Maybe. He gave him a little wave, and retreated back to the clinic. He was already very late returning from his break.

Sherlock smiled as he watched John march smartly off. He resisted the urge to give Sarah, who had been staring at them the whole time, a wave and a 'hi, I fucked your ex and made him scream louder than you ever could' smile, instead returning her stony look for a good measure before stepping into the lift and descending.

John hesitated in the hallway, then popped his head back in reception. "Sarah... Any chance I can take off in a couple hours? Scotland Yard... um.. thing." She didn't meet his eyes, but nodded, and turned her attention back to the tittering nurses. Several of them glanced his direction, and John flushed. They weren't stupid. And he was still slightly rumpled. And probably looked well-shagged. He turned on his heel and made his escape, back to his office. John stood in the doorway, staring in awe at the mess they'd made. He sighed, closing the door and gathering all the paperwork that had been scattered on the carpet. He would need to sort these. John examined them for signs of... well… After all, Sherlock's cum had been practically everywhere. He grinned, flipping through the pages, noting with satisfaction that most everything seemed in order. As he glanced at two sheets that appeared identical, however, John frowned. Were they duplicates? Did he have two patients with the same name? He needed the charts.

John seated himself at his desk, orderly once more, and he reached to press the intercom button to call for Margaret. His fingers paused.

The red light was on.

The damned thing was already on.

He'd never turned it off from calling reception to advise them of Sherlock's imminent arrival.

His neck heated, and his entire body turned to burning ice. And when he left the clinic an hour later, he did not look back, and did not even make it to the lift before he heard the peals of laughter.


	2. The Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes to the dance, despite all his misgivings and grumbles. He even wears a damn tie. What he doesn't expect is to meet a strange man by the name of Bradley Jameson, and he certainly doesn't expect what happens after, either.
> 
> _"John snapped. It was all he could take, the poor doctor. To even imagine that Sherlock had thought about being with another man... He bloody snapped. He thrust himself up, eyes darting about until he spied a table, and he towered over Sherlock, seething, chest heaving, teeth gritted. 'You want a fuck?' he grated out. 'You'll get one.'"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry! This is still a Johnlock and NOT Sherlock/OC. ;D

Sherlock was standing outside the dreaded building wondering whether or not to actually go. He could just slink off and go to some seedy little restaurant for a few hours then return to the flat and say he'd been dancing. No, that wouldn't do. Lestrade would certainly tell John on him and then Sherlock would be in trouble. The sleuth grunted and frowned, he did not want to be here at all. But John told him he needed to go and that above all he needed to be _POLITE_. John had stressed that last part vehemently. So here he was, at the dance, all dressed up in his Sunday best. Sherlock had to admit he did look rather nice dressed in a well fitted black suit with a black silk shirt and a solid royal blue tie. He had bought the suit earlier that month in hopes he would get to wow John with it, but instead he was wearing it here. John wouldn't see him in it until it much later when Sherlock came home. It was not what he had envisioned, but he would have to make do. Behind him he could hear footsteps. Lestrade from the sound of it. Sherlock wrinkled his nose in displeasure. It was all Lestrade's fault he was here.

"Sherlock! You came!" Greg Lestrade's gravelly voice was full of surprise and pleasure. He was really and truly glad to see the slender detective standing just outside the hall, hands in his pockets, looking thoroughly disgusted. Sherlock turned to face him, and Greg smiled his lop-sided grin as those bright eyes took in the woman on Lestrade's arm, notably NOT his wife. "Didn't think you'd show." The woman smiled shyly up at the tall man as well. "Hello."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. _Molly._ Molly Hooper was clutching Lestrade's arm in a more than friendly fashion as she smiled shyly up at him. The detective gave her a quick perusal. Red stiletto sandals, low cut little black dress that showed off her curves very well, a lacy red shawl that matched her heels, quite a bit of flirtatious make up, and perfume. She was dressed to impress. 'Hello Molly.' Sherlock looked back to Lestrade with a blank expression. 'John made it clear that I needed to come.' he stated flatly.

Lestrade chuckled at the bemused detective, clutching Molly's hand tightly. "Well. Thank God for that." He gave Sherlock an appraising look. "Did he dress you as well?" Sherlock looked... like a page out of a men's fashion magazine. Then again, that wasn't so unusual. He glanced over at Molly, who was a little too obvious in her efforts not to gawk at Sherlock. Lestrade sighed.

Sherlock scowled impetuously, 'I've been dressing myself since I can remember, Lestrade. I've grown rather proficient at it.' The detective noticed Molly squirm a little, saw the look Lestrade gave her. His jaw twitched. _Interesting._

Greg gestured to the door, and Sherlock turned again, leading the way, as usual. He and Molly followed close behind. Molly's shoulders hunched a bit as they walked, a clear sign of anxiety that even Lestrade could read. He wrapped his arm around them, somewhat awkwardly, their view of Sherlock's back in his ridiculously tailored, expensive black suit a little too close for comfort. It shifted and moved in sensual patterns across his body, the fabric taking on a light sheen in the low light of the hall as they stepped onto an enormous dance floor, scattered with tables, candles, discreet floral arrangements, and hundreds of bodies packed all together, swirling and swaying to a slow beat from the band on a raised platform. Lestrade cringed. It was his wedding all over again. Molly made a polite comment about the decor, and turned to Sherlock timidly. "It's lovely, isn't it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock snorted, 'I suppose.' He heard John's voice in his head telling him to be nice and he almost snarled. 'Lovely.' He repeated without much enthusiasm. Sherlock spotted Anderson and his less than attractive wife on one end of the room. They looked miserable. _Good._ The smell of perfume and aftershave increased the closer they got to the moving bodies on the dance floor. Sherlock hated social functions with a passion. This reminded him of one of the many gatherings he had been forced to attend in his teens, except it was not as high class and stuffy. Sherlock had sworn he would never go back to one of these things as long as he lived and now here he was. And how he hated it.

Lestrade pulled a chair out of one of the small, round tables. It was speckled with glittery confetti, and he rolled his eyes as Sherlock plopped himself down opposite, lifting a pinch of glitter in his hands and studying it with a bored expression. Greg turned his attention to Molly. Bloody hell, she looked gorgeous tonight. He was secretly thrilled that she'd agreed to go; he wasn't about to come alone again, and his ex was... out of the question. Molly shifted in her chair, pulling her wrap closer, avoiding Sherlock's face. "Would you like a drink?" Greg asked her, and he shot him a grateful look. "What'll it be then?"

Sherlock repressed a long sigh and looked at Lestrade who was looking at Molly who was looking anywhere but Sherlock and quirked his lips. 'Vodka tonic, Lestrade, since you're on your way.'

"I wasn't asking..." Lestrade exhaled, exasperated. It was pointless to argue. "Molly?" She smiled up at him. "Um.. just, whatever you're having would be fine." Greg nodded, and began weaving his way through the sea of bodies to the bar. He could already tell he would need to keep the drinks coming this evening.

Sherlock had planned on not drinking any alcohol but he knew as soon as he stepped foot in the hall that he would need a drink or two or three. Vodka tonic was keeping it light, John would be pleased. Silence reigned over the table now that Lestrade had left. Sherlock was far too busy wallowing in self-pity to notice Molly's discomfort. Sherlock prodded the table with a long finger and looked around without much interest. It was going to be a dull evening. He wondered how long he'd have to stay before he could leave without getting a reprimand from his lover. Probably two hours at the least. Two hours... fuck. He was going to need more than one drink, that was for sure.

Molly cleared her throat. Sherlock did not look at her. She fidgeted, with her wrap, with the flowers on the table. The music changed to an upbeat, popular number, and she straightened in her chair. "Oh, I like this song. Have you heard it, Sherlock?" At the great sigh that he let out, she flushed furiously. "No. Course you haven't. It's nice, though..." she trailed off, and in a moment, Lestrade was back with the drinks. Molly drank hers swiftly, unaware of Greg's eyes on her all the while. Lestrade sipped at his glass, but only a little. At the rate his date and his friend were drinking, one of them needed to stay a little sober. "Molly, want to take a spin round?" he asked, and she was on her feet almost instantly. Lestrade patted Sherlock's shoulder as they made their way to the dance floor. "Don't sit here all night," he admonished quietly. "The whole point of getting you to come was to show people you're human. So get out there, and be human." Then he and Molly were gone, lost in the crowd of dancing figures.

Sherlock snorted. _Be human?_ What a trite thing to say. How like the dear Detective Inspector. Sherlock hunched his shoulders and sulked for a moment or two before picking up his glass and swallowing the rest of his drink in one gulp. Damn tedious waste of an evening. He could be back at the flat on John's laptop reading all the doctor's personal files, waiting for him to return. Sherlock stood up and resignedly began to stalk around the room, watching everyone with his all seeing eye. To his left he could make out a police woman who had been at several of the crime scenes. She was here with her... husband? Yes, husband, but they weren't together, oh no. Not really. She had at least two other lovers, one of which was a woman by the way she was watching one of the other ladies at the dance. Her husband was aware of this, he liked it. Sherlock shook his head. He'd never be able to understand people and all their little emotions. Before long the sleuth had made it to the bar. He stared at the bottles of alcohol behind the bar before making his decision. 'Whiskey sour.' He told the bartender who nodded and turned away.

'Hello Freak.' Sherlock paused. Sally Donovan. Lovely. 'What're you doing here?'

'Drinking.' Sherlock turned to face the woman, a mocking smile firmly in place. Beside her stood a man dressed in midnight blue suit with a white button up, no tie, and white chuck tailors. He was in his early thirties, light brown hair, brown eyes. Attractive. Donovan was not his type, Sherlock could see that immediately. A wicked thought sprung up in Sherlock's mind and he looked back at Donovan. 'I see Anderson's wife is back. Fancy that.'

Sally flinched and gave him a death glare. She hated Sherlock Holmes with a passion.

Donovan's date stepped up, flashing a blinding white smile at Sherlock, his hand thrust out. It was well manicured, and uncalloused. "Bradley Jameson." His eyes darted over every square inch of the exotic, pale face, lingering on Sherlock's full lips, still wet from the vodka tonic.

Sherlock smiled his fake smile and took the man's hand. It was well cared for. 'Sherlock Holmes.' All he could hear in his head was John constantly reminding him to "be nice".

"Sh..." Brown eyes flickered to Sally, and the smile grew impossibly wider. "Sherlock Holmes. I have to say, you're not exactly what I expected." He reluctantly dropped the strong, wiry hand, eyes never leaving Sherlock's for a second. He did take an obligatory step closer to Sally as she ordered drinks. "Sally's told me so much about you."

Sherlock snorted and raised an eyebrow, looking from Donovan to Jameson before replying. 'I'm sure she has. Sergeant Donovan and I are old friends.' He could tell the irony of his choice in words was almost completely lost on Donovan's arm candy. Clearly she did not know the man would never have any interest in her. The bartender informed him his drink was ready and he leaned against the bar for a moment, picking up the whiskey sour and taking a swig. It was going to be a long night. 'Fabre's or Lunds?' He asked, turning back to the man.

Jameson lit up, and he glanced at Donovan excitedly, as she rolled her eyes. "Bloody hell, he's doing it," he stammered, and turned back to Sherlock, forgetting himself and taking a step forward, well into the detective's personal space. "You're doing it, that thing, the trick Sally told me about. I've always wanted to see it. Do it, do me." Immediately two bright crimson spots appeared on his cheeks, and he glanced over his shoulder to see if Sally was paying attention. She was chatting with a female constable. Bradley placed a conspiring, intimate hand on Sherlock's arm. "I mean to say... come over here into the light, and look at me, and tell me what you see. I'm mad with curiosity to see if you can do what she says you can do."

Sherlock glanced at the hand with some distaste but ignored it and followed the man into a better lit area. 'You want me to deduce you.' He stated, his eyebrows raised. It was not an unusual question, but coming from Donovan's "date" it was a surprising one. He saw the look of delight and curiosity in the man's eyes and decided to indulge him. 'From the state of your hands I can tell you work at a desk, you don't do much work with your hands and the way you carry yourself suggests confidence, so you're in a position of some power. The lack of a tie suggests something a little less formal, but then your suit says otherwise; clearly you are very good at what you do. The ring on your left hand has the emblem of Harvard Law School on there, which explains your slight American accent. You've been abroad for several years, just returned to England this last week. The tan your sporting suggests that you've been on holiday, probably in Florida where you spend most of your summers. So, very high paying job, neat hands, expensive clothes, professional stance, only one option. Which is why I asked Fabre's or Lunds. They're the two best law firms in England, and clearly you only work at the best.' Sherlock smirked.

His mouth was open, and Bradley Jameson did nothing to cover it up. He took several deep breaths, and then... another step closer. He let his eyes wander the thin face again, and he blinked. "You... that was..." He swallowed. "It's Lunds. I won't even ask how you knew all that.. a magician's secrets should never be revealed." When Sherlock did not pull away, but simply stared down at him cooly, Bradley inched a bit closer, his eyes downcast. "Anything else?" he asked softly, glancing up through thick eyelashes. The music in the background was slow, and heavy, a deep, rolling melody that had couples all around swaying in sensual rhythms.

Sherlock frowned, something was not right. 'You like cats, you're a smoker, never been married, but that's not surprising considering you're not the type. Are you?'

The dazzling smile was back. "Am I what?" he grinned, enjoying Sherlock's refusal to back down as he moved closer little by little, enjoying the banter between them. He glanced about swiftly, but Sally was gone for the moment, either in the loo, or perhaps looking for him out in the crowd. He and Sherlock were wedged in a well lit corner, shielded from the rest of the party by a wall of dancing human bodies.

Sherlock returned the smile. 'She's not your type. You prefer someone with a little more... muscle.' Sherlock took another sip of his drink and leaned an elbow against an nearby wall. 'She doesn't know she's just your cover story. Tell me,' his eyes flashed, 'are you hiding because it's more fun or is it just easier?'

Oh, now this was getting good. Bradley nearly laughed in his relief. "Am I that obvious?" he groaned, mimicking Sherlock and leaning on the wall, head leaning in conspiratorially. "No, no one knows. Well." He smiled, skin flushed in pleasure. "No one except you." At Sherlock's tight smile, he lifted his eyebrows. "You're certainly... different than Sally described you." He took in the youthful, smooth face, the thick, rich curls, the tailored suit. "You're so..." Bradley didn't finish. He let his eyes talk for him.

Sherlock gazed at him through heavily lidded eyes, 'Donovan isn't the most observant of people, her powers of description are lacking, I'm sure.' The sleuth refused to be intimidated, this Jameson was playing a game with Sherlock, little did he know that Sherlock always won. 'I'd ask you to dance, but that would probably ruin your little masquerade.' He let out a low chuckle, suddenly getting a strong urge to run outside and smoke. No, he was supposed to be good. John was waiting for him back at their flat. Sherlock would be good. Sherlock would be nice.

"You could still ask." He didn't look up now, but found the shining hard wood floors fascinating. His pulse must have been racing. He could almost hear it pumping in his ears.

Sherlock leaned forward until his lips were right next to Jameson's ear. 'Would you care for a dance, Bradley Jameson?' He murmured quietly. Sherlock never lost.

A great shudder passed through the man's entire body, and he was half hard before Sherlock's words had dissolved in the air. Bradley did not let Sherlock pull away very far. He pressed himself forward, one hand on the taller man's chest, and he backed them into a shadowed space a few feet away. He stood on his toes, breathing into his ear. "I'd love one."

Sherlock put an arm around Jameson's waist. When he'd told John he didn't know how to dance it had been somewhat of an overstatement. Sherlock Holmes knew how to dance; he'd been drilled in the art for too long for him to have forgotten. In fact, one might say Sherlock was an excellent dancer. The song was a soft, slow melody and people were leaning against one another, not bothering to look at the two men slowly beginning to dance in a dark corner of the room. Sherlock grasped Jameson's other hand and gently began to sway with the music, leading the shorter man in a smooth dance. _John would be proud_ , Sherlock thought to himself. He was getting out of his shell. Dancing.

"Hell." The word was soft spoken and shaky. Bradley was flushed to the bone, as if it were his first dance, as if it were his first touch, as if... He looked up, and nearly stopped breathing. Golden light danced on that sculpted face; ice grey eyes gazed into his, as if they were taking him apart, analyzing every bit, reading his very soul. Hands, strong and silken, clutched at his body, at his palm, and he drew closer, his face nearing Sherlock's until their noses were almost touching. "Tell me more about me," he whispered fiercely, shivering as his arm wound around Sherlock's neck. His fingers played in the hairs on the nape of his neck. They were dark, and so very soft. "Not where I work. Not my habits. Tell me... Sherlock Holmes... who am I?"

Sherlock did not speak for a few moments; he instead gazed into Jameson's eyes. He could feel the lawyer's hand on his neck, Jameson had invaded Sherlock's personal space and Sherlock could not, would not tell him to stop. He was going to play this game, he was going to be polite, he was going to make an effort. 'You... well, you grew up in a conservative family, an only child. You were lonely growing up,' that Sherlock knew without a doubt, he had those same eyes before he met John. 'You won't tell your family about your sexual preference which means you love them very much. You like to have some fun, but you're not overly promiscuous, I doubt you've slept with more than three men. One woman, you had to try. You like being on the bottom best, you easily accept that and you clearly think that you are... very good in bed. You are alone right now, all alone, living in an empty flat. Even your cat is still in America.' Sherlock's voice was soft, he did not empathise with Jameson, no, but he did remember being alone. Sherlock did not like being alone.

His grip on Sherlock's neck and hand tightened, and then went slack. Jameson's brown eyes were impossibly wide, and he gave another shudder. His movements stilled, and with them, Sherlock's. For several seconds, he stood and stared up at the beautiful man. Then, his lips moved. "Cor. Is there someplace I can order some of you? I'll take three at least," he laughed quietly, but his hand drifted, down Sherlock's chest, round to his back. Bradley slid in close, chest to chest, in the shadows. He lifted his mouth, lips brushing Sherlock's jaw as he whispered, "Flat's not far..."

Sherlock's heart nearly stopped. Oh. Oh. OH. Fuck. What had he gotten himself into? How fucking stupid could he have gotten? It was HIM. Fuck. Sherlock did not know how to extract himself from this situation, he did not... 'I don't think you'd like me. There's a reason why I'm the only one, there's a reason why Dovonan calls me Freak. You should ask my... flatmate.' Sherlock wanted desperately to refer to John as his lover, but he didn't. He never did. Sherlock did not want to put John in a tight place, especially since John always insisted that he was NOT gay.

"I like you just fine," Bradley cooed in his ear, and his hands were sliding lower. "Come on, let's leg it out of here, eh? I promise a real good time." Smooth fingers grazed Sherlock's lower back. Bradley's brown eyes were closed, and Sherlock's back was to the crowd, which is why neither saw the hurricane coming until it was upon them.

Sherlock shifted, he did not like where Jameson's hands were heading. He was John's. But... John had told him to be polite, not to cause a scene. 'No, really. I'm flattered but I'm not that...' Sherlock did not know how to go on. He wondered whether he should just shove the man off or if he should continue dancing, or if he should just run as far as hell away. He desperately wished Lestrade would come. He desperately wished anyone would interrupt. 'Jameson, you should know... I'm not...' _I'm not available_ , is what he was trying to say, but the words would not come out.

The hands drifted lower.

Sherlock moved, that was it. 'Look, I'm sorry if I led you on. I'm not looking for a quick fuck in a stranger's flat.' He began to push away. 'Trust me, you don't want me.'

Bradley opened his mouth to protest, his eyes finally coming to rest on Sherlock's face, but a sudden movement over his shoulder caught his interest, right before he was sitting crumpled on the ground, holding his jaw. A sickening crunch still reverberated in the air, and Bradley moaned, blinking dizzily.

Sherlock froze for a moment, his eyes wide open. _What just...? Oh fuck..._ Slowly, very slowly Sherlock turned around. There was John, his hands balled into fists, his face red with fury. _Oh shit._

"Where the FUCK were his hands, Sherlock?" John's voice was booming, and at least half of the hall's inhabitants paused in their frivolities to stare at the developing drama. John's brown finger stabbed Sherlock's chest accusingly, his blue eyes aflame. "What the BLOODY FUCK was that? Who the HELL is this?" He jabbed the finger at the man on the floor, too paralyzed with fear to move or speak. "Explain. Now. And make it FUCKING good."

Sherlock folded his arms and glared back at John. He felt guilty, he should never have gotten himself in that situation, but he didn't fucking care. It's not like he wanted to be here in the first place. 'YOU were the one who told me to socialise. If I recall you told me to dance with people, make myself pleasant. That's what I was doing. How the hell was I supposed to know he was coming on to me?' He demanded defensively. 'I didn't want to be here but YOU said I had to come. And by the way, I was declining all advances as soon as I realised what was happening.' Sherlock jutted his chin out and waited for John's reply.

John stared at him, fury radiating from every orifice. He'd gotten out of work early. He'd borne the scornful laughter of his office staff. He'd made his way to the flat, showered, shaved, combed his hair, put a little product in, splashed some cologne on, donned his best gray suit, the one he wore to weddings, the one he probably needed to replace because it wasn't nearly as grand as Sherlock's, but hell, it would do, polished up his shoes, and caught a cab here straight away. He hadn't even stopped to eat. He sat the entire cab ride over, wondering at the miraculous nature of life. He was not a teenager. He wasn't even in uni anymore. He was a grown man in his thirties that had killed other man, had seen war, had been in more trouble than any one person should ever have to endure. And yet... he was sitting in a cab in his nicest clothes, clutching a small flower to pin to Sherlock's lapel, his stomach in knots. He hadn't been this nervous when he took Penelope Bettencourt to a dance when he was fourteen. He'd imagined the look on Sherlock's face when he showed up to surprise him, the pleasure and joy there. He'd imagined that they might dance together. Instead... "Sherlock," he seethed, his teeth grating. The flower was crushed in his fist. "You can tell when a slag like this fancies you when he has his HANDS ON YOUR FUCKING ARSE."

Sherlock blanched a little. He was in a tight spot. He didn't want to admit that he'd been a more than a little unsettled when he realised just where Jameson's hands were going, and he refused to admit that he'd been downright terrified when the man kissed his jaw. He was John's. No one else was allowed to touch him like that. No one ever had. And John had seen it all. Sherlock felt miserable, he felt like storming out and never coming back. He felt like... John. 'John, I didn't... I'm sorry. I didn't realise. I didn't. I was extracting myself from the situation when you came in. I swear.' Sherlock looked down at Jameson and bit his lip. How could he explain? God, John looked nice... No. Sherlock was not going to think about that. 'Look, John. I came here like you wanted,' the detective turned to look back at his furious lover, 'I talked to people, I tried to be nice. I asked him for a dance, I. Didn't. Know. When I realised what was going on I tried stopping it, I swear.' He said through gritted teeth. _Fuck._ This was ruining all plans he had for later in the evening. _Fuck_. 'John.' Sherlock hesitantly put a hand on John's arm, feeling him bristle. Hell, Sherlock was never going to be forgiven for this one, was he?

"Is there a problem here?" Lestrade's calm voice broke the tension, and he appeared out of nowhere, dragging a timid but terribly curious Molly Hooper behind him, The pair glanced from Sherlock's miserable face to John's enraged stance to the trembling man on the ground. "Bloody hell," Lestrade muttered, swooping down to haul poor Bradley up by his elbow. "You all right there, mate?"

"Yes," Bradley grunted, not meeting Sherlock's eyes. He turned instead to John, leaning on Lestrade's arm for support. John felt a brief pang of remorse; sometimes he forgot that his fists were battle hardened and knew the sting of combat. Then the image of this man's hands wrapped snugly around Sherlock's tight buttocks invaded, and he stiffened. "I..I'm sorry," Bradley stammered, cradling his bruised jaw. The flesh was purple already, blossoming red and blue beneath the surface. "I didn't know. He said he had a flat mate. I didn't know."

John narrowed his eyes, and peered at Sherlock as Lestrade leaned in. "You two. take it someplace private, eh?" John pressed his lips in a thin line as Molly and Greg hustled Sherlock's dance partner away gingerly.

Sherlock grasped John's hand and pulled him toward the men's bathroom. 'Come with me.' He hissed as John resisted. 'We're going to talk.'

John yanked his hand back, snarling. "Flat mate?"

Sherlock whirled around. 'Well what was I supposed to say?!' He demanded, pulling himself up to his full height, staring down at John. 'You always tell me "people will talk". You never want us to hold hands in public. You don't want people to know. Christ, John! I don't know whether you're ashamed of me or just mortified that you like a man.' Sherlock's arms trembled. He had not meant to say those things. That was something he was never going to tell John, it was something he had planned on keeping to himself. 'I'm sorry, John. I didn't realise. You know I'm no good at that sort of thing. You... I didn't tell him because I didn't want to make you uneasy or upset.'

They stood in the middle of the dance floor now, surrounded by stares and open mouths. John wavered, and began to laugh. It was bitter, ironic, and disbelieving, all at the same bloody time. "Sherlock," he rasped, and then grabbed a huge handful of suit jacket that cost more than he made in a year, dragging the tall, slender man into a desperate and passionate kiss. His breath was ragged in Sherlock's slack mouth as he whispered, "You're a fucking fool, Sherlock Holmes, if you think I have had one moment, one second, where I was ashamed of you." John pulled back, and looked around. Even the music had stopped. "Well. This is perfect. First the girls at the office and now this."

Sherlock blinked and peered down at John. He didn't even notice the gawkers. 'I'm sorry John. I really am. I didn't know. I was getting him off me, I swear I was.'

"They heard us..." John muttered under his breath, his cheeks beginning to color. "The intercom. On my desk. It was on the whole time. And now this."

Sherlock looked down at his hands then at a suddenly very interesting spot on the floor. 'Oh? Did they?' He asked innocently. 'Well... that's embarrassing.'

John gaped. He knew that look. "Oh... no, Sherlock..." His face crumpled into a resigned, angry smile. "You knew. You knew it was on."

'Well,' Sherlock looked back at John and smiled a tiny, slightly satisfied smile, 'I only realised it about half way through, but, well, by that time we'd already done the damage and it seemed like such a shame to stop...' He trailed off and stuck his hands in his pant pockets. He was thrilled about the kiss. Of course he hadn't been very happy about the circumstances that caused it, but still... Sherlock was a very private man, yes, but he was also a very possessive man and a kind of a big show off. He did not like it when things were off limits, he did not like it when he couldn't hold John's hand in public, or kiss him in public, or hug him in public. Not that he would really ever do any of those things, but he still liked to know he had the option

John planted himself on the ground, his too-tight shoes pinching his feet, his dated suit looking pale and rather shabby next to the graceful, impeccable form of his young lover, his face lined beneath the glowing ambient light. His fists were clenched still at his sides, and he stared down at his own distorted reflection shimmering in the polished wooden floor. All about him, he could hear the whispers, the murmurs, the tinkle of laughter, and it struck him quite suddenly what Sherlock had just said. Yes, the detective was a great fool if he'd ever thought that John was ashamed of him. Yes, Sherlock could be completely clueless and socially disastrous. But... his stormy blue eyes raised to Sherlock's slowly, and John frowned. He stepped in close, ignoring the gathering onlookers. "Sherlock," he said gently, quietly, so quietly that Sherlock had to lean in to hear him. "Did you think I wanted to hide you?"

Sherlock's heart thudded. John was using THAT voice. That voice that meant either something very, very good was in store for the sleuth or that something extremely bad was coming. 'I...' He swallowed and looked away from John's face. How should he continue? He didn't know. Sherlock was sure there was the right thing to say for this situation, but hell if he knew what it was.

John's eyebrows lifted, and he tilted his head expectantly. This was rubbish. This was insanity. He was... a good bit older than Sherlock, and a good bit less attractive, in his own estimation. He was not nearly as smart, as successful, or as clever, and yet... Sherlock stood before him, shoulders hunched, cheeks tinged with scarlet, eyes downcast, the very picture of discomfort and insecurity. John shook his head. "Sherlock..." but he didn't get any farther before several people in the crowd were pushed aside, and Sally Donovan charged through, looking for all the world like an angry bull.

'Hey! Freak!' Donovan snapped, her voice almost twice as angry as John's had been moments ago. She was standing there, her arms folded, her eyes narrowed. 'What the FUCK have you done with my boyfriend, Freak?' She demanded harshly. Donovan had known Sherlock Holmes for years and years now and every single time they met she hated him more and more. The first time she'd ever seen Sherlock, she'd been, as much as she hated to admit it, rather attracted to him… That was before he told her her entire life story right down to the exact number of times she'd tried to kill herself in her teens. Ever since then Donovan had hated the consulting detective with a passion. 'He disappeared with you and comes back with his face bashed in? What the fuck did you do?!' She demanded, her face contorted with rage.

Sherlock straightened up and looked at the seething woman. One elegant eyebrow raised almost to his hairline as he noted her offensive stance. _Lovely_ , this was just what he needed. John and he had been having a very private moment, admittedly in front of about 100 onlookers, and in came Sally Donovan, ready for attack. _"Freak."_ Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but was cut off rather suddenly by John stepping in front of him.

"You know what, you fucking cow, I'll thank you to back the bloody hell off now." He stood a good inch shorter than Donovan on a normal day. Now, when her shapely, bare legs were endowed with a pair of stiletto heels, John had to look up at her as he snarled. It made him no less intimidating. His entire aura pulsed with white hot ire, and Sally stepped back involuntarily in the face of it. John hovered before Sherlock, unconsciously shielding that slim body with his own, small though it was. His shoulders were square, his jaw set stubbornly as he met Sally's shocked and indignant gaze. "You want someone to blame, hm? Blame me. I cocked him, not Sherlock. And if I see his fucking pikey face again, I'll do it again."

Sally's rage surged up again and she snarled. 'Quit sticking up for him, he's just using you. That's what he does. Manipulative psycho, that's what he is!' She hissed at the short, intimidating man in front of her.

John took two large strides forward, so quickly that a hiss went up from the crowd, and indeed, from Sherlock as well. He was nose to nose with Sally in a heartbeat. He could smell the liquor on her breath, smell her cheap perfume... smell her sudden fear. John's voice was low, and terrible. "If you ever... call him a psychopath again..." he breathed, and behind him, Sherlock gave a visible shudder. That was the voice. The voice that called him to rush from the flat and bend over a desk in a strange office in a pair of black lace panties and beg to be fucked. John Watson was a very dangerous man. "If you ever call him a freak again... if you ever do anything but shut your fucking whore mouth..." John's body pressed against hers, allowing her to feel the revolver hidden beneath his loose grey jacket. "I'll show you what a psychopath can really do, Sergeant."

Donovan gulped and took a few steps back, clenching her fists defensively. 'What are you, then?' Her voice wobbled slightly, 'His attack dog? His bloody boyfriend?!' She laughed harshly at the seeming irony of her words. As if Sherlock Holmes could ever have a "significant other" in his life. Suddenly Sally stopped laughing and looked from Sherlock to John. 'No...' She spluttered. 'You've got to be fuc...' She gaped at them. Even Sally Donovan could recognise the looks on the two men's faces. 'You're both effing crazy.' And with that she turned around and fled the scene.

"Tell your boyfriend to keep his bloody hands off other people's ARSES!" John shouted behind her, and turned slowly. Sherlock Holmes was staring at him like he'd never seen him before. John flushed. He glanced about, and realized that each and every person in the vicinity had the exact same look on their faces. "What?" he growled.

Sherlock was speechless. He had watched the encounter unfold in a sort of detached, nonplussed fashion. The detective was used to the jeers of people, especially Donovan, and was always a little surprised when John stood up for him. Sherlock preferred to ignore nasty comments and focus on his work. 'John,' he said quietly, feelings slowly starting to march in. 'What, no, maybe we should go somewhere, ah, else.' Sherlock took a few steps forward and put a hand on John's shoulder.

"We will. But there is something I need to do first." John tangled his fingers in the back of Sherlock's hair, very swiftly, before Sherlock could deduce him, before Sherlock could read the purpose in his eyes. He yanked it forward, and leveraged his body, pulling Sherlock's off balance, catching him as those long, gangly legs fumbled... And then John was kissing him, Sherlock lying in his arms backwards, John bent over him, and the thought that they probably looked like a terrible cover for a sordid romance novel flashed through his mind. But it didn't matter now; nothing mattered but the gasp of surprise in Sherlock's throat, and the murmur that danced through the crowd, and the feel of Sherlock's fingers grasping the back of his jacket, and the tongue in his mouth.

The sudden movement knocked the breath out of Sherlock, and before he knew what was going on, he was being supported by a pair of strong arms and snogged quite thoroughly. Well this is new, he thought to himself before closing his arms around John's neck and shoulders, grabbing handfuls of the grey jacket and kissing him back vigorously. When they finally broke apart, Sherlock just stayed in John's capable arms, looking at him. For once in his life Sherlock Holmes was completely and utterly tongue tied. He could not think of a single thing to say. His heart was soaring. John, his John, straight John, stoic John, had just kissed him in front of the entire congregation, most of them just happening to be people Sherlock and John interacted with on a weekly basis.

"Now." John was breathing hard, his gaze trained on Sherlock's wide, glassy eyes. Well, that was it, then. Everyone knew. Not that it was much of a surprise... he was shocked there were still people who didn't already guess by the way he stared at Sherlock, by the way he'd been staring at him since the day they met. John's arms burned from his lover's weight, but John found that he did not mind. In fact, he rather thought he could stay like this for the rest of eternity. Holding Sherlock. Sheltering Sherlock. Being Sherlock's guard dog. His lover. His best friend. "Want to find a dark corner and fuck?" he muttered, taking great pleasure in the way Sherlock's mouth parted with a small inhale. "I've got to reclaim that arse. Some other bloke was touching it." He leaned down to Sherlock's ear, whispering. "I don't like it when other blokes touch my things."

Sherlock simply nodded, it was as though he'd been struck dumb. He couldn't think of a single thing he'd like more than to get fucked in a dark corner of the building by his lover. One small part of him was sighing and shaking its analytical head. It told him he was being a fool, breaking down all those defences he'd worked so hard to build up over the years. Sherlock the sociopath - gone. In its place came the words Sherlock Holmes; human after all. And somehow Sherlock couldn't bring himself to give a damn.

John hauled him up, and without a look at any of the frozen faces, began brushing past, looking for the closest door out of the hall. Well. Maybe a few glances. He saw Lestrade and Molly, awestruck by a small table, their fingers clutching drinks that hadn't been touched. Anderson and his homely wife were pressed in close to see the action, and John had to resist the urge to bark at him as he dragged Sherlock along behind by the hand. A sea of faces, some he knew, some he didn't, all gawking, and John... felt no anxiety. Odd, this. He'd thought about this moment for months now, the moment in which the world knew, and he couldn't pretend anymore to be the straight laced soldier anymore. The moment when the world knew he was, quite literally, in bed with then world's greatest detective. The moment when John H. Watson became, officially, Sherlock Holmes' lover. That moment was now. And John was not afraid. He could think of only one thing, and that was finding someplace to rip Sherlock's trousers off. He let the door slam behind them, and John was scurrying down an empty hallway, eyes darting, looking...

Sherlock followed after John as the practically ran down the hall. He saw John's head snapping back and forth looking for the perfect spot to fuck Sherlock. It was odd, Sherlock felt odd. Sherlock felt happy that everyone knew his business. He had complained to himself and even a little to John that he was tired of them being secretive, but the truth was he didn't know if he really wanted people to know. Well, now it had changed. The time had come and Sherlock was happy. No more lurking about, though damn it all if they weren't still going to have a quick, desperate shag while at a crime scene. And there was no way in hell Sherlock was going to give up John sucking him off in a quiet corner while the bustling sounds of life, and more often than not, death whirred around them. People would look at them a little differently now, they'd probably be watched a little harder, but that only made things more interesting. It made the game even better. 'There!' Sherlock gasped, finally speaking up. He pointed to a wooden door with a glass window. Everything inside was dark. The perfect spot.

"Finally." John moaned, shoving the door open and pulling Sherlock inside roughly. He slammed the door shut, and then slammed his lover against it, mouth crushing to his. "You are in such fucking trouble," he growled fiercely, tongue exploring every inch of Sherlock's open, panting mouth. "Fuck, Sherlock, you are in such trouble."

Sherlock moaned into John's mouth. 'I know. You're just going to have to punish me again,' he kissed John's smooth jaw, 'and again' he grazed his teeth against an earlobe, 'and again' his hands frantically slid around John's waist and pulled on the fabric. Sherlock spread his legs a little, hooking one around one of John's, forcing the man's leg to press against Sherlock's crotch.

And this was what John loved about Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't his hands, which were currently divesting him of his clothes quicker than John's eye could follow. It wasn't his lean body, which arched and slid against his, sensual and hungry. It wasn't even his voice, that moaned his name so beautifully into the pitch darkness, or his eyes that shone at him intently, or his tongue, or his legs, or his cock. It was this. This moment, when John could feel need and want radiating off of Sherlock's spirit, like heat on the pavement. It was his utter adoration of John, an inexplicable thing that John never would understand, and would never, ever, ever let go of. He finished shoving his own clothes off until he was naked, nude and shivering in the cool of the empty, dark room. John's fingers began to pluck at fabric, and Sherlock lifted his hands to yank his tie off, plucking at buttons, shrugging his brand new suit jacket off to pile on the floor alongside his trousers that John had pulled down unceremoniously.

Sherlock gladly divested himself with the help of John's quick fingers, all the while rocking against his lover, kissing, biting, licking. He wanted John so very badly. It didn't matter that he'd been pounded mercilessly earlier that day, nor indeed that he rarely ever let John fuck him once let alone twice in the space of 24 hours. Sherlock wanted John, Sherlock needed John. He could feel John's heat wafting from the sturdy body and he leaned down, his hands mapping John's thighs lovingly. 'You don't know what you do to me.' He whispered in the crook of John's neck before he sucked. John's groan of delight was music to Sherlock. John's strong arms were Sherlock's anchor. John was Sherlock's beacon, his homing device.

John laughed in between helpless whimpers and moans, his head thrown back as Sherlock devoured his neck. "What I do to you?" he murmured, trembling against the glorious nudity of Sherlock's gorgeous body. John could stare at it all day. Sherlock was pale and translucent in the low light, his chest rising and falling as he made love to John's neck, and that... oh... oh that felt wonderful..."Sherlock!" John cried, a muffled shout into a jutting shoulder, and he was hard, so hard, leaking at the tip as he rubbed his cock vigorously between Sherlock's thighs. An answering hardness met his own, and John was strangled. He couldn't speak, couldn't breathe, couldn't register anything in the world but the teeth at his neck and the electricity coursing through his veins. Sherlock's hands were on his buttocks, pulling him closer, and he lifted his chin, begging for more attention lavished on his neck. Fuck he was sensitive there. "You have no idea what you do to me, Sherlock, no idea, no fucking clue..."

Sherlock giggled a little as he continued to lick at John's neck, loving the reactions that sprang from his actions. To every action there is an equal or greater reaction, and this... this was spectacular. 'I think I do,' he whispered, gently biting the skin of John's larynx. 'After all, look at the effect I had on Jameson.' Sherlock smiled and dug his nails into the soft, tender flesh of John's backside, bucking into him. He was prepared for the consequences his words brought him. In fact he looked forward to them with bated breath. Sherlock liked it rough and he wanted to be rid of the smell, touch, and sound of Jameson had left on him. He wanted to be exclusively John's once more.

John growled, a feral, furious sound, and he grabbed fistfuls of dark curls, clenching them tightly as he wrenched Sherlock down to the floor, slamming him on his back. John swung his leg over Sherlock's struggling thighs, sitting on top of his stomach, and he leaned down, lips curling, eyes slitted and glittering in the darkness. The only light in the room was the dull glow of the hallway's dim light bulbs, leaking through a frosted glass pane on the door. It threw John's face into shadow, and Sherlock siezed up beneath him as white, shining teeth bared at him. "Jameson, was it?" John said softly, his voice dripping with menace. His fingers teased lightly at Sherlock's neck and collarbone, tickling the skin there with gentle strokes. It would have been comforting and affectionate if not for the occasional dig of rough, unmanicured fingernails into the flesh. Sherlock arched and moaned, and John squeezed his hips between strong, muscular thighs. He was not allowed to move. Not until John said so. Those dancing fingertips skated down his pectorals, tracing lazy circles around his erect nipples, down, down, over flexing stomach muscles, to the cut lines of his abdomen that drove John wild with need every single fucking time he saw them. He moved along these for several seconds, his eyes watching the movements, his breath coming low and erratic. "How did it feel, Sherlock?" John asked shakily. His whisper echoes off the walls of the black, empty room. His fingers began plucking curiously at the hair below his navel. "How did his hands feel on you? How did it feel to hold him? How did it feel when he put his..." John paused, taking a moment to bring the fresh surge of jealousy and rage under control. "...his mouth on you?"

A languid laugh rumbled up through Sherlock's chest, bubbling out of his mouth. John was jealous. Sherlock resisted the urge to shudder as John fingered the sensitive hair. 'Ooh, John... He felt so different from you.' An arm raised slowly and traced up the muscles on John's biceps before dropping and sliding seductively down Sherlock's sides along with his other hand. He tossed his head a little and slowly blinked. Sherlock could feel John's barely contained rage radiating from his body, coiled and ready to strike. Sherlock wanted him to strike. 'When he kissed my jaw,' Sherlock lined the spot with two long fingers and let out a sigh, 'his lips are different from yours. They're softer.' _They didn't feel half as good._ 'He didn't know how to touch me, so gentle, so light, tentative.' Sherlock hummed a little and played with his hair, running a hand through it and letting out little moans. 'He wasn't as aggressive; he didn't know the meaning of pain.' The detective's eyes flashed and he brought his knees up, hitting John's back.

John's fury was reaching a boiling point. Sherlock.. HIS Sherlock... was lying below him, pinned to the floor, writhing and moaning and going on about the softness of another man's lips, the gentle lightness of his touch. John was about to snap and show Sherlock EXACTLY what the meaning of pain was when Sherlock's knees collided with his spine, and all the air left his body at once. He crumpled swiftly, gasping for breath, his head smacking the hard wood floors as Sherlock scrambled beside him.

Sherlock sat up and looked down at John breathing hard. 'It was a different experience, nothing like you.' And Sherlock had hated it. It hadn't been John. It almost disgusted him that he had allowed someone else to touch him. He wanted John to hurt him, he wanted John to reclaim him and never ever let him forget that Sherlock belonged to him. He wanted John to erase all memory of that man's hands on him. Sherlock parted his lips and got up on his knees, spreading his legs just a little. John was breathing hard on the floor beside him, Sherlock could see something twitching inside him, something he'd never seen before. A flash of fear sounded inside Sherlock and he felt aroused. This was something new. Something dangerous. Sherlock Holmes was excited.

John lay on the floor for several long moments, watching Sherlock kneel beside him, watching those thighs spread: an invitation. His face hardened. Sherlock was asking for it. He was asking for it, because he felt guilty, and he wanted John to alleviate his guilt. Well, fuck that. John was still angry. He propped himself up on one elbow, facing Sherlock, his jaw set. "You knew about the intercom," he said flatly, and waited for Sherlock's response.

Sherlock snickered a little, he couldn't help it. 'Yes, I knew about that. It was rather obvious.' He didn't bother to mention that he hadn't known about it right away. He'd said as much earlier and if John couldn't remember then so much the better. Sherlock was actually a little horrified that so many details of the room had escaped him; he'd been too aroused to take in everything. He didn't like that. 'You didn't do it on purpose?' Sherlock bit the air and grinned wickedly. He slid his hands down his chest; outlining the muscles, down until the met his legs. How could he make John angrier? How could he push his little soldier to the breaking point? Sherlock rolled his head around and sighed, absentmindedly tracing a thumb along the inside of a thigh. 'That intercom, John, you really need to be more observant.' He admonished. 'Didn't think there wouldn't be any consequences for forcing me into that dance? Telling me to dance with people and be "nice"?' Sherlock looked at John lying in the dark, his face covered in shadow, his breath coming in heavy droves. How much more could the stalwart soldier take?

John's nostrils were flaring as he breathed, in and out, deeply, his lips pressed tight. "Consequences," he repeated slowly, and a wave of fear broke upon his mind. Not of Sherlock. He had never once been afraid of Sherlock, not really, not even when the handcuffs came out, or the riding crop, or... his eyes flicked over to the pile of clothes they'd hastily deposited on the floor. John was on his feet in an instant, and Sherlock's eyes widened as John's foot came into sudden contact with his chest, shoving, and Sherlock was on his back again. Before he could make a move, John had crossed the floor, snatched at the pile of jackets, shirts, trousers, knickers and socks, and he was sitting on Sherlock's stomach once more. John leaned down, his face level with Sherlock's, his nose brushing his, his lips barely moving. "You knew about the intercom," he whispered dangerously, and smiled a grim smile as Sherlock shivered below. "And you let some filthy slag fucker put his hands on you, on your body, Sherlock. This body." John's left hand went searching, pressing firmly into Sherlock's flesh, everywhere he could reach. It dove in between Sherlock's legs, forceful and claiming, ignoring the timid grazing touches of before in favor of demanding contact, stroking roughly over Sherlock's erection, cupping his balls, thrusting fingers against his puckered entrance. With his right hand, John gathered both of Sherlock's wrists, and he held them above his head on the cold floor. "You don't have that right, Sherlock," he growled, still soft, still quietly perilous. "This body. This is mine. MINE, do you understand?" Both hands were up now, and silk was sliding against and between those wrists. John was binding them together with Sherlock's brand new blue silk tie.

Sherlock's fight or flight instinct was kicking in, his breathing was becoming laboured, his pupils were dilating. 'I could have taken him into the loo and fucked him hard and fast if I'd wanted.' He whispered, forcing himself not to struggle against the tight bonds around his wrists. He could feel John's other hand manhandling his cock, balls, and hole. If felt fucking great.

John pulled the silk tighter, oh, yes... too tight. Sherlock hissed. He smirked, pressing those white hands into the floor firmly. "Keep them there." John sat back, and Sherlock slowly began to lower his wrists, cool grey eyes trained on his lover. John scowled, and brought his palm flat against his stomach, hard. The smack was loud in the silence of the room. "I said leave them the fuck there," he snarled. Sherlock obeyed immediately. John slid down his body until he was lying, face buried in Sherlock's hip, his mouth so close, so close to Sherlock's rigid shaft. It was a beautiful thing, Sherlock's cock. He loved to look at it, loved to play with it. But not tonight. No, tonight... Sherlock would have to pay for his transgressions. John blew on the heated flesh, his cheeks burning with fury. "Thought about that, did you?" he murmured, hands pushing Sherlock's thighs apart as far as they would go. "Thought about fucking him in the loo?" Without warning, John turned and sank his teeth deep into the baby soft flesh of Sherlock's inner thigh, and stayed there, biting, hard.

Sherlock felt a shriek leave his lungs as John tore into his thigh. Oh fuck. 'Oh yes,' he lied, wondering how far he should push this, 'I had him in the palm of my hand. He was begging me to go to his flat.' Pain flooded Sherlock's mind and he tried pushing against John, but the man would have none of it. John put a hand on his leg and slammed it into the floor. The bruised area from earlier that day hit against the cool floor and Sherlock let out a little grunt. He arched his back up a little as he felt John's breath on his cock again. Oh fuck, it felt so good.

John snapped. It was all he could take, the poor doctor. To even imagine that Sherlock has thought about being with another man... He bloody snapped. He thrust himself up, eyes darting about until he spied a table, and he towered over Sherlock, seething, chest heaving, teeth gritted. "You want a fuck?" he grated out. "You'll get one." And with that, John bent down, grabbing at Sherlock's bound wrists and dragging him bodily over to the table, Sherlock's feet kicking and his lean frame twisting the whole way. He slammed him down, face first on the table, Sherlock's hands wedged unnaturally beneath him. It had to hurt. John knew it hurt. He knew the grip he had on Sherlock's neck was too strong. He knew his knee was seriously abusing Sherlock's balls. He knew the moans and grunts were ones of pain as well as arousal. He didn't give a fuck. "Sherlock, you better be fucking ready."

Sherlock's cheek hurt as he was slammed onto the table, the familiar mixture of pain and pleasure was on a whole new level, it was more than Sherlock had ever experienced before. It was a new high. 'Ohh, fuck John, I'm ready.' He moaned, trying to ignore the throbbing in his arms, the way John's hand was crushing into his neck. Sherlock would never tell John that as soon as he felt Jameson's hands on him, when his lips had reached Sherlock's jaw, that he'd gotten nervous, almost... scared. No, after this was done he would assure John that he'd never ever have slept with him, but for now. For now Sherlock needed to be punished. He wanted John to fuck him and make him scream. 'He was begging me to fuck him.' He laughed wildly. 'He was so much more polite than you and I didn't even have to touch him, he'd already submitted to me.' It was boring. Sherlock didn't want someone who would just lie down and take it. Sherlock wanted a fighter, Sherlock wanted John. No one else would do.

Course he begged you to fuck him," John snarled back. He scraped his fingernails down Sherlock's back, his cock jumping at the sight of the blossoming crimson welts that followed. "Look at you. You're a fucking cock whore, Sherlock. Look at you, you're begging for it, your arse is fucking begging for it." And it was. Sherlock was rocking back onto his erection like a slut. The edges of John's vision were tinged with scarlet. He was fucking furious, enraged, blistering with anger... and lust. He shoved that head down once more, grinning morbidly at the sound of Sherlock's jaw thumping the dirty wooden table, and with no preparation more than a little spit on his aching cock, John thrust forward, pushing past the tight ring of muscle forcefully, ignoring the wail that erupted from his younger lover. "Oooooh fuck, Sherlock! Th... that's... fuck... just... hnnngh.."

Sherlock's arse fucking hurt. It hurt like nothing he'd ever experience before. John was pushing into him forcefully and Sherlock was meeting him at every thrust, pushing against him as fast as he could. 'OOHhhh! FUCK! It hurts! Augh! It hurrrffffuuuck soo damn good! Fuck me harder!' He screamed, the pain was exhilarating, it was more intense than the drugs, more intense than the other times they'd had sex... it was... 'OH FUCK. Harderrr. Ggggooddd, fuck me haarddeer Jjohhnn.' The table was shuddering under their weight, groaning and moaning along with the two men. Sherlock's arms were on fire, his throat was raw, he could feel his jaw sting, his face was beginning to bruise and it was fucking good.

"SHIIIIIIIT!" John threw his head back, his throat bobbing and straining as he crashed into Sherlock, over and over, merciless. He could feel the trembling of his lover's body, the pain ripping through his joints and his nerves and John delighted in it. Revelled in it. Sherlock screamed again as John pumped him deeper, angling his thrusts to seek as much friction as he could get. Sherlock's body was still trying to push him out every time he withdrew, and John laughed madly as he slammed back in, eliciting a violent jolt from Sherlock each time. "YES! Fuck yesss! Oh! Fucking hell, Sherlock, you... uuuggh... Hnnn... Beg me again! Beg me for it!" John's hands found a grip in jutting hips, and he used the leverage to quicken the thrusts, deepen them, make Sherlock just that much more helpless against the onslaught of his wicked cock. "Hhhh... FUCK, Sherrrrrrlockkk, damn youuu, fucking DAMN YOU!"

Tears were spilling from Sherlock's eyes, he couldn't stop them. 'Fffuck me, John, fuck me so hard. M.. make me for - forget the ffeeeeaaahh goooodddddddd... HARDER! Oh ggod please, please, more, harder, harder, John, John, I love you, fuck me, fuck me!' Sherlock panted, begged, pleaded, moaned, whined as John slammed against him harder and harder each time. His whole body was spasming, his mind was close behind. It was so painful, so good. Jameson would never have been a quarter as good as his John Watson. No one... no one could ever make Sherlock feel as alive as John did.

John couldn't speak anymore. He felt as if someone had removed him from his body, and he was standing back, watching a stranger shag his lover against a dirty table in an empty room in a banquet hall. Sherlock sobbed and flailed and begged, and John just stared down at himself, blinking in wonder. How did this come to be? How was he impaling himself in the most beautiful human being to ever walk the face of this earth? How did it come to pass that Sherlock Fucking Holmes was face first, legs spread, screaming hoarsely... for him? John swallowed dryly, and his thrusts slowed. His hands drifted up lazily to Sherlock's shoulders, the skyrocketing tension beginning to dissolve, leaving behind it a slow burning fire that licked at his senses, coiling in his gut, settling down low in his groin. He began to cant forward very, very slowly, his hands on Sherlock's shoulders gripping tightly. Sherlock's high pitched screams quieted as John Watson began to fuck him with maddening precision, pushing in gradually, taking his time as he pulled back out, torturing the walls inside of him, striking his prostate, teasing the tight muscle.

Sherlock began to whimper, John was teasing him. 'Johnnnn...' he whined, moving his shoulders, tossing his head, pushing against the doctor's cock. John's grip on his shoulders tightened and he hissed at Sherlock to stop. Sherlock knew John was not going to make this easy, he was not going to do whatever the detective wanted. Sherlock trembled and shook, trying to stay still, trying to listen to his lover. 'Johhhnnnn, pleaaseee.'

"Please what?" John managed, but that was just about all he could manage. He had to shut his eyes, unable to handle the sight of Sherlock's pale, naked body, spread and offered up to him, his arse rising to meet John's piercing lunges, jamming back down to trap Sherlock's cock against the table. John felt the orgasm building in him, a tingle in his toes and fingers, spreading to his limbs, swiftly coursing to a central spot between his legs. His balls were tightening. He was holding on... but just barely.

'Pleasee, fuck me harder... cum inside me, make me cum. Don't let me think of anything else, don't let me think of..' Sherlock trailed off, breathing hard. 'Oh fuuuck!' Sherlock moved against the table, desperate for some friction, desperate for release.

"I want you to cum." John leaned forward, pulling Sherlock back against him, and he dragged that red mouth in for a hungry, devouring kiss. Sherlock could hardly hold himself together long enough to kiss John back, their tongues and lips desperately seeking one another, and John whispered against that gaping mouth, "I want you to cum, Sherlock... Tell me how you need it... Slow, and sweet, like this?" He shoved in, inch by inch, making sure Sherlock felt every uncanny fraction of movement. The deliciousness of the slow thrust nearly drove John over the edge. "Or fast and wicked, like this?" he groaned, and then they were on the floor again, Sherlock slumped, his hands tied still and wedged between his legs, his thighs spread, his cheek flat on the chilled floor. John crouched behind him, cock still and buried deep inside. "Well?" he croaked... but he already knew the answer.

Sherlock shuddered at the sudden cold of the floor against his burning cheek. John was teasing, John was being mean. He moaned and rocked against him. 'Ha-ha-haaard, fuck me hard, don't stop. Pound into me.' He gasped, his eyes wide and his body aching. He was close, he could feel it.

John let out a gutteral, animalistic groan, and then... "Heeeell fuuuuck fucking hellllll yessss!" The fuck became riotous, unbridled, completely out of his control. The sounds ripping from his chest were not John's, they belonged to some other wild thing that had taken over John's body and was currently trying its best to split Sherlock into two with only his cock as a weapon. It pistoned fast and so hard that Sherlock's face was getting slammed into the floor with every plunge, and John was powerless to stop it. Pleasure screeched in every corner of his mind and body. He drove into him, shouting, shouting, screaming. HIS. HIS. Sherlock was fucking HIS. John's. And anyone within a mile knew it now as he bellowed, "FUCK! Fuck, Sherloooock, Say my name, say it NOW, Sherlock, SCREAM FOR ME, CUM FOR ME NOOOW!"

Sherlock shuddered as John shouted at him. Sherlock felt himself begin to scream John's name over and over and over. 'JOHN, JOhhhnnnnn, OH GOD, I LOVE YOU. FUCK. JOHN! John! John!' He sobbed, his whole body convulsing as he came. It was odd, John hadn't even touched his cock and Sherlock was cumming harder and faster than he had since... since his first shag. He could feel John inside him, moving pushing, breathing hard, growling like a feral animal as he watched Sherlock spasm and cry and scream his name. God, Sherlock loved this so much. He didn't know how people could live their boring lives with their boring sex. He didn't know how people could live without John, he certainly couldn't. 'Joooooohhhhhhhnnnnnnnnnn...'

Oh yes. That was what he'd been waiting for. John continued to ram him until Sherlock was a mass of whimpers and sobs, and then he pulled out, roughly turning Sherlock over onto his back, and shoving his cock into his face, brushing it against his lips, moaning. John wrapped his hand tightly around the base, and gave it two hard pumps, and then he was shouting hoarsely, cumming all over that aquline face, thick, white eruptions exploding all over Sherlock's mouth, his nose, his ridiculously high cheekbones. "AAAAHH Sherlockkkkk FUCK fuck fuck fuck fuck!" His hips rocked into his own grasp, drawing it out, milking the last exquisite jolt of pleasure from his body. John sagged, and collapsed on the floor beside him, shuddering.

Sherlock's tongue darted out and lapped the pearly white cum that covered his face and hair. John had never cum on his face before, never. Sherlock had done it to him a few times at John's behest. Not that Sherlock had never been opposed to it, in fact he rather loved the way John looked covered in Sherlock's semen. But now, now he could see what made John so fascinated, so eager for it. There was something so dirty, so depraved about it. It was great. After he regulated his breathing Sherlock rolled over and propped himself up on John's heaving chest, ignoring the jolts of pain and light-headedness. 'John,' he said looking into John's stormy eyes. 'I love you. I would never have slept with him. Never.' Sherlock needed John to know that, just that, nothing more. 'Never.'

John lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his heart rate slowing. He glanced at Sherlock, at the concern in those light eyes, and John felt his mouth quirk. He snorted, and began to laugh, deep, rolling peals of laughter bubbling up from his chest. He could barely breathe. He rolled over, close to Sherlock, unable to stifle the giggles, and he ruffled his thick curly hair, pushing him playfully. At Sherlock's indignant expression, John began laughing anew. "Oh..." he panted, his stomach clenching at the dual sensations of recent copulation, and unbridled mirth. "Oh, Sherlock, you are funny."

Sherlock huffed, affronted at John's humour. He turned away from John, pulled his legs up to his chest and rested his chin on his knees, pouting. 'I meant it.' He mumbled, his lower lip protruding petulantly.

John sat up as well, placing a warm, calloused hand on Sherlock's bare back. He leaned forward, resting his chin on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock... look at me."

Sherlock shook his head and bumped his shoulder against the weight of John's chin.

"Come on." John crawled around to face him, covering his hands with his own. "Sherlock."

Sherlock glared at him and stuck his tongue out before turning around, his back to John.

"All right then," John sang, turning his back to Sherlock as well, cross legged, his chin in his hands. They sat this way for a few moments before John rolled his eyes. He'd have to break the silence. He always had to give in. Sherlock was incapable of it. He glanced over his shoulder at the world's greatest detective... naked and pouting. "You know," John murmured, as if to no one in particular, "if the greatest criminal of all time couldn't make me believe ill of you, Sherlock..., what makes you think some horny prat at a dance would cast even a moment of doubt on you?" John sighed, and shook his head, studying his hands. "Do you think my opinion of you is so cheap, Sherlock?"

Sherlock mumbled something similar to 'it's not... was worried you would not want... with me... was guilty. There was an odd tight feeling in his chest. It wasn't like that time when he'd first met John, first realised he was in love with John, first slept with John, no, it was a feeling completely different from those. Sherlock Holmes felt guilty. He never felt guilty. The sleuth almost relented, almost turned around, but his pride would not allow him. He'd just been fucked harder and more violently than he'd ever been before. He was bruised all over; he could feel the slightly bloody spots where John's nails had made deep lines on his flesh. He had fucking semen all over him, his thighs hurt like hell, and he was pretty sure his arse hole was bleeding. There was no way in hell he was going to be the first to turn around. No _fucking_ way.

John glanced at him again, and his heart sank. He'd been too rough with him. Between their encounter at the office earlier, and this... whatever this was... Sherlock was covered in bruises, bite marks, torn flesh, and scratches. John flushed. He'd lost control. Damn Sherlock... he always made John lose control. He turned a little, his physician's instincts kicking in, and he traced one finger down a long welt that had formed on Sherlock's back, a trail left by a raking fingernail. "Sherlock... I trust you. I was angry, yes. He had his hands all over you. And I was..." John hesitated. He rolled his eyes. "...I am still upset about the intercom. But, Sherlock..." he tilted his head, tried to get his lover's attention. "I'm not angry with you. You've nothing to feel guilty for."

Sherlock shivered as John traced a particularly painful mark. He was trying to placate him. Sherlock snorted. 'He touched me. I didn't see it coming. I shouldn't have let him... I shouldn't have danced with him...' Sherlock bit his tongue. No, he was not going to spill his guts over this. He knew that what he was feeling was irrational, it wasn't like him. He needed to cool down and look at it analytically. Damn John always made him FEEL. And Sherlock loved him for it. He sighed and leaned against John, still not looking at him. Sherlock was sure he looked rather disgusting right now what with the bruises blooming on his cheek and the red marks covering his body. He didn't regret it, though, not at all. He'd do it again in a heartbeat.

John smiled. He leaned in quickly to kiss his cheek, to brush his lips on the soft purple mark there. "Forgive me?" He knew Sherlock already had.

Sherlock didn't answer for a lengthy time, trying to hold on to his indignant mood, but John's lips and fingers kept brushing his body and he couldn't help but smile a little. 'Yes.' He admitted, unfolding his arms and slanting his head back to look at John's face. Sherlock could feel laughter inside him and he began to chuckle. 'What's to forgive?' He grinned and tilted his head up so that his lips brushed John's jaw.

John shuddered at the sensation. "Uh.. um.." he struggled to remain in the moment. It was difficult with Sherlock's lips nibbling at his throat. "Um... shagging you violently in my office, slugging your dancing partner, shouting and causing a scene, threatening members of Scotland Yard, kissing you without permission in public, fucking you raw, biting you, hurting you, shall I go on?"

Sherlock giggled and turned around pulling John into a hug. 'Yes.' His body shook with silent laughter as John opened his mouth to continue. 'No, no, no... don't. Please, John... I was happy you did all that.' Sherlock hid his face in John' s neck and began to whisper, making John have to strain to hear him. 'I wasn't sure how I was going to get out of that situation. It's never happened to me before. And you came. I'm just sad that I didn't get to dance with you.'

John stared at him for two whole minutes before he made his decision. Foolish or not, idiotic or not... he was going to dance with Sherlock Holmes tonight. He stood, naked, still a bit wobbly from exertion, and offered his tanned hand to Sherlock. "Dance with me then?" he murmured, and although he'd been shagging with this man for months on end, Johns heart began palpitating in his chest when Sherlock blinked up at him, cat-like.

Sherlock looked up at him in surprise before surging to his feet. He wobbled a bit and shot his hands out to steady himself on John. 'I'd love to.' He said with a smile. His arms slid down to circle around John's waist and he leaned against his lover. Sherlock closed his eyes and let out a long, satisfied smile. Sure, his body hurt like hell whenever he moved, sure his head was still spinning from their previous activities, but it was John. John had asked him to dance and it didn't matter that they were both as naked as the day they were born, nothing else mattered because he and John were together. Everything was going to be alright.

John was, once again, slightly horrified at the state of his lover's body, bruised and battered, but... a small part of him surged with pride and satisfaction. He'd been on the receiving end of the bruises often enough. He drew close to Sherlock, and they began to rotate to imaginary music, their feet shuffling on the floor. He rained butterfly kisses on any surface his mouth could reach, muttering under his breath. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes... I do. I do so love you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock smiled against John's hair, just swaying with his lover as John pressed sweet kisses on his skin and professed his love over and over. 'I know,' he sighed, 'I love you, too. More than anything else.' And he did.

"Want to go home, get take out, watch telly?"

'Yes please.'


	3. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is the morning after the fated dance, and John wakes to find the aftermath of his actions. When Sherlock finally comes to he finds himself saddled with an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually, this is a mild chapter, but if you've kept along thus far, then I'd say you know what to expect by now, so, unless there is something wild even by our standards in the future chapters, I will no longer be putting in warnings.

It took him several minutes after he smacked the alarm clock in the morning for John Watson to remember a single thing about the previous day's events. He lay in the darkness, the grey of the early morning just beginning to seep through the window pane, and he stared at the ceiling, breathing slowly and steadily. He was pressed into the mattress from his chest down, Sherlock's gangly form draped over him, their legs tangled and bare. John shivered. Sherlock's calves were brushing his own, and they felt smooth, soft... like silk. The corner of his mouth turned up as he remembered... Sherlock had shaved for him. What an idiot. What a lovely, thoughtful, sexy, idiotic thing to do. He stretched a bit, his arm wedged possessively beneath Sherlock's head, and his young lover curled closer, a low mewl escaping his throat. John reached for the bedside lamp, turning it on its lowest setting, wondering absentmindedly if he could extricate himself without waking the sleeping man next to him, his mind still full of dreams and cobwebs. He turned to press a kiss to Sherlock's forehead... his morning routine... and froze. His breath halted in his lungs. His heart stuttered. His mouth hung open. "Bloody hell," John whispered. Sherlock looked as if he'd been hit by a train. He was naked as usual, but that skin, so porcelain and pristine, so white and flawless, was littered, no... completely covered... in bitemarks. Welts. Scratches. Gigantic, John Watson hand-sized bruises, blossoming and spreading over the flesh on is hips, his thighs... his face. John choked. Those glorious cheekbones were a sickly shade of purple and blue, yellowish edges seeping out across his face. His lips were swollen... bitten. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his brow was drawn as he slept. He made a whimpering little noise in the back of his throat, and John stumbled out of bed, unable to tear his eyes away. He stared a moment longer before bolting upstairs for fresh clothes. He barely had the time to snatch his mobile before he was propelling himself out the front door of the flat. He was terribly... terribly glad to be working today. He had no idea what he would do if he had to face Sherlock this morning. John was in such a state that he did not even text Sherlock on his way to work. He simply could not bring himself to.

* * *

Sherlock moaned a little in his sleep, his eyelids fluttering slightly. He rolled over and gasped in pain, his eyes popping open. There had been a reason why he'd fallen asleep on his stomach, his back was where the more painful marks were deposited. 'Fuck.' He whispered hoarsely, looking at the other side of the bed out of habit. John was gone, of course, but... Sherlock gingerly reached for his phone. He hadn't heard the mobile go off. He hurriedly flicked through the phone. No message. Sherlock frowned. That wasn't right. John always left him a message when he worked early. Always. Quickly he typed up a morning message for John.

_Good morning. Hope you have a good day. – SH_

There. Succinct, cheerful, and most importantly, no mention of the previous night whatsoever. Sherlock bit his lip and sat up before almost immediately lying back down with a little whine of pain. His backside ached almost unbearably. 'Fuck.' He muttered again, curling up into a little ball. He wished John had taken the damn day off just so he wouldn't have to move about. 'Fuck.'

'Yes, that seems to be a wise choice in words.'

Sherlock's eyes popped open and his head shot up. Mycroft was standing in the doorway to the bedroom, watching Sherlock with one eyebrow raised, the look of constant boredom perfectly schooled on his face. 'What are you doing here?' Sherlock growled, forgetting the pain and sitting up. He grabbed the sheet and wrapped it around his shoulders in the hopes that Mycroft hadn't seen the state of his body. He knew it was futile, Mycroft had seen a good deal of the damage. Sherlock had spent his entire life avoiding and hating Mycroft, he knew every expression, or lack thereof, his elder brother made. Mycroft was not happy.

Mycroft brushed his nose and looked away from Sherlock for a few seconds. He did not like seeing his brother like this. First it had been Dr Watson, only slightly the worse for wear, and now this... what had the man done to his younger brother? It had only taken a few seconds to record every single visible bruise and laceration on his younger brother's body and another few to determine how each one had happened. What had transpired between the two men? There were a few possibilities, but Mycroft scratched off one of them. Not even Sherlock could have enjoyed being so brutally beaten; surely it had to have been... Mycroft held back the urge to walk into the doctor's office and unload a round into his head. Those marks were the signs of a struggle, most likely rape. Mycroft Holmes was not happy, no, he was furious.

Sherlock stood up, making sure not to betray any sign of the immense surge of pain that one small action caused. 'What do you want, Mycroft?' he asked, still holding his face in a death glare. He was not going to give Mycroft the satisfaction of seeing him in such a state.

'To talk.' Was the simple answer. Mycroft turned around and walked into the living room, not bothering to check if Sherlock was following him, he knew that he was. Sherlock always followed.

The younger Holmes brother watched for a few moments as Mycroft purposefully made his way into the living room and sat in an arm chair. John's arm chair. Sherlock, in a display of perfect bodily control, strode into the room without a single wince or whine. He would never show weakness in front of Mycroft. Never. With a great show of boredom he flopped down on the sofa and leaned back into a comfortable corner, his insides screaming at him. 'So, what do you want to talk about?'

* * *

His mobile was vibrating. John could feel it in his pocket as he bent over a patient, eye pressed closely to his ophthalmoscope. He ignored it, his heart palpitating, and he straightened with a forced smile. "Just a little swimmer's ear," he said kindly, and set about writing a scrip. His jumper felt extraordinarily hot today; he shed it as soon as he reached his office again, pushing the sleeves of his plaid shirt up to the elbows, and he deposited himself in the chair behind his desk, flipping through reports. His phone had stopped buzzing, but... John's head hadn't. It was dizzy, throbbing, and seemed to whisper with every pulse, Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. John growled, shoving the paperwork away from him, leaning back. His eyes flicked to the intercom, and his neck burned. Just yesterday, he had fucked Sherlock Holmes over this desk. They had shagged in his office, so good and long and hard that John thought he would never need to shag again as long as he lived. That had lasted until around seven o'clock that night. Then... He buried his face in his hands, groaning softly. What the FUCK was wrong with him? He'd been so cruel. So rough. He'd HURT Sherlock, the only man in the entire world he cared about. His phone let out a single beep, a reminder, and John reached for it at last, timidly. He flipped it open, and read Sherlock's text. His heart twisted. He'd never given Sherlock his morning hello. The least he could have done after debauching him so very thoroughly the night before was say good morning. John felt ashamed of himself.

He clicked reply, and began to type.

_Good morning, Sherlock. I looked at you before I left this morning and you look like hell. Did I really do that to you? – JW_

No point in delaying the inevitable. John was a straight forward bloke, and would not tip toe around the obvious. He'd rather it be addressed. Dealt with. Done. He set his phone down on the desk and tried to turn his attention to the paperwork, while eyeing the little black screen as he waited breathlessly for Sherlock's reply.

* * *

Mycroft and Sherlock were locked in somewhat of a staring match without John there to break the silence. Sherlock was not going to initiate the conversation and he knew that Mycroft would not want to, either. And so they sat until suddenly Sherlock's mobile went off and the sounds of John moaning erotically filled the still room. Sherlock smirked. He flicked his phone on and saw John's message. His heart simultaneously warmed and twisted with sadness. _John, of course._ Sherlock should have known. His lover must have felt terrible once he'd seen what Sherlock looked like. Sherlock himself hadn't looked in the mirror yet, but he was in enough pain to assume that he looked absolutely disgusting. Sherlock bit his tongue and answered John, taking his time. The detective knew it annoyed his dear older brother when he paid him no heed. It always did.

_Mycroft walked in the door of our bedroom earlier. I'm sitting on the sofa listening to him prattle on about some case. Only he's not here for the case. I wish he would stop beating around the bush and spit it out. It's tedious listening to him. – SH_

Sherlock did not mention the silence. He knew it would only make John worry.

_Don't worry about me, John. I took some medication earlier and I don't mind the pain. Mycroft is glaring at me. I can tell he's itching to question me about last night, but he knows it won't do him any good. – SH_

* * *

John's fingers froze on his mobile phone, his heart in his stomach. Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes was in his flat, and Sherlock... looked as if he'd been in a pub brawl. "Oh fuck," John muttered at last. He had a sudden fierce desire for his revolver. It was lying at home in their bureau, covered in socks and lubricant bottles and various junk that Sherlock threw in when he had no time or inclination to put his things away. John sat for a long while, his hand covering his mouth. Mycroft would murder him. Hell, the man had practically kidnapped John when he was the one on the receiving end of the bruises. Now that it was Sherlock... John swallowed hard. There was a swift rap at the door, and he jumped. Sarah's head came peeking in, and she didn't meet his eyes as she cleared her throat and said, "They're waiting for you in exam room six." John nodded, mortified at the blush in her cheeks as she glanced at his desk, and scurried away as fast as she could. He groaned. This was going to make his life infinitely more difficult. The office girls. Scotland Yard. Mycroft Holmes. He stood, smoothing his shirt, and he strode from the room, pushing all thoughts of Sherlock away as best he could. That lasted until a few minutes after eleven. John needed a coffee. He had not taken the time for a kettle that morning, and he was beginning to develop a headache. He had a good half hour until his next appointment, so in an effort to placate the staff, he poked his head into reception. The nurses milled about the front desk, whispering. He did not need three guesses to know what they were giggling about. John rolled his eyes.

"Anyone fancy a coffee?" he asked loudly. They all glanced up, and he gave them his best, most winning smile. "I'm buying." A surge of drink orders followed, and John marched out of the clinic feeling rather pleased with himself. Even Sarah allowed him to purchase a coffee for her, which was something she hadn't done since they broke up, and John was glad. He liked Sarah; he liked her very much. He just didn't want to shag her. Hell, he never wanted to shag anyone else but Sherlock ever again. No one else could compare. No one else would look as hedonistic, feel as fucking incredible... no one could compare to Sherlock. John whistled a little as he walked, enjoying the cool mist on his face. The coffee shop was just round the corner, and he was glad for the fresh air. He was being ridiculous. Sherlock sounded all right. Mycroft was simply discussing a case. John was being paranoid. He'd go home, apologize for the rough sex, kiss his lover, and everything would be fine. The girls at the office would forget about yesterday... eventually. And it wasn't as if Scotland Yard gave a bloody fuck about their relationship, as long as Sherlock continued to solve their cases and let them take the credit. John's feet turned towards a newspaper stand; he hadn't read the morning paper either, and needed something to take his mind off of the fact that Sherlock's very dangerous older brother was currently in his flat. He reached for the paper, and his hand stalled. "Shit." The gossip print next to the morning paper had a large photograph on its front page... John Watson snogging a prostrate Sherlock Holmes in formal wear on a dance floor. John picked it up, stared at it a moment, and sighed. He replaced it, cheeks aflame, and he turned smartly on his heel. Mycroft was going to kill him. Yes. Yes, Mycroft was going to have him killed for sure this time. He swallowed as he walked.

_Are you still with Mycroft? Shit, he must think I beat the hell out of you. – JW_

* * *

'Little brother,' Mycroft started, not quite sure how to go about this particular mode of questioning. It had been somewhat easy when Doctor Watson was on the other end, that man was usually a little reasonable, but it wasn't him Mycroft was dealing with, it was Sherlock. Sherlock was known for being petulant and for hating his older brother with a passion rarely seen these days. 'I heard about the dance.' He said finally, watching as his younger brother bristled defensively.

'So?' Demanded Sherlock, crossing his arms. 'I went to a dance, I socialised. Yay!' He said sarcastically, lifting up his arms and flopping them down again for emphasis. How much had Mycroft "heard"? This did not bode well.

Mycroft cleared his throat and held up a magazine. There was a picture of Sherlock being kissed passionately by John on the front. 'And this?' He inquired, an eyebrow arched.

Sherlock almost flushed. 'Oh, did I forget to mention I danced with another man, my lover got jealous and decked him before thoroughly kissing me in public? Silly me.' There was a hint of perverse pleasure and pride in Sherlock's voice as he spoke those words, enjoying watching Mycroft not squirm.

'And the bruises...?'

'The bruises are no-' Sherlock was cut off by his mobile singing out. He glanced down at it and bit his lower lip thoughtfully before typing his reply and ignoring the stony silence emanating from his older brother.

_Yes, he is still here. It's probably a good thing you left for work early. Then again it might have served him right to see the two of us in bed. He has a bad habit of walking in places unannounced. But… I wouldn't have wanted anyone else to see you naked, especially not him. You're mine. – SH_

'Sherlock. Would you kindly put that away?' Mycroft hissed, his mask slipping ever so slightly. 'Do you realise what you have done?!' He spat out. 'You jeopardised the FAMILY name with that little stunt you pulled. I see this disgusting display of emotion in one of THEE most prolific gossip magazines in Britain and when I come here the morning after to find out what exactly is going on, I find you prostrate in bed covered in vicious wounds. How do you think I am supposed to react to that?!' Mycroft was almost trembling he was so angry.

Sherlock's chin jutted out and he sat there seething for a moment in silence. 'Don't start acting like you are worried, _big brother_.' was the cutting reply. 'You aren't very convincing.' And without another word, Sherlock began to ignore Mycroft's very existence.

* * *

He stopped on the way back from the coffee shop, and bought a gossip paper despite himself. The man at the newsstand gave him an odd, knowing look, and John thought perhaps a leer, but he stuffed the paper in his trouser pocket and dashed back to the office as quickly as he could. As he wedged himself behind reception, barking out coffee orders and doling them out, John caught a glimpse of a newspaper in the wastebasket. He groaned aloud. "Oh, hell." They'd probably all been gathered round it all morning. He sighed heavily, trudging back to his office and collapsing in his swiveling chair. He turned it round and round, his short legs scooting the floor, until he came to stare at his desk again. John pulled out his mobile, and the paper. He glanced at them both. Mobile first. He flicked it to life, and skimmed Sherlock's text. He snorted.

_You do realize there are other people in the world that have seen me naked. – JW_

John grinned as he sent that off, knowing how Sherlock became indignant at the very thought. He was a virgin; why couldn't John be? It grated Sherlock that other people had touched John... kissed John... made love with John. No matter how many times he assured him that Sherlock was, by far, the best shag of his life, the wiry detective was still a jealous man. And John liked to tease. He turned his attention to the gossip column now, and the headline which read in gigantic letters "SHERLOCK HOLMES SORDID GAY SCANDAL" He could not help a tiny smirk. They had no fucking idea.

* * *

Still pointedly ignoring Mycroft, Sherlock allowed himself to pout a little as he saw John's reply. Really, and John had gotten upset that another man had been feeling him up. John was the one who'd slept with other people. Never mind that it had been before they'd gotten together, it was still a punishable offence in Sherlock's mind.

_It makes my blood boil to think about it, but yes. – SH_

_Mycroft keeps pestering me about what happened at the dance. He's seen the papers. He mainly wanted to know what the hell happened to my face. I'm usually so good at keeping it out of harm's way. These bruises are large and have turned into rather gorgeous purples and blues. – SH_

Sherlock smiled grimly and glanced up at his older brother.

* * *

John was reading over the article. It was complete bollocks, of course, but the photo on the cover was not the only one the reporter had gotten. There were pictures of Sherlock dancing with Jameson, pictures of John punching Jameson, pictures of him and Sherlock leaving their flat, pictures of them, standing a little too close at a crime scene. It was a very thorough picture of their lives together. John scowled. Vultures, reporters were. All of them. He'd never forgive them for the Richard Brooke incident. Ever. John glanced up as his phone buzzed again. He shivered as he read Sherlock's messages, and the recollection of Mycroft's face as he sat across from John months ago, drilling him about their sex life danced before his eyes. This man was... far too intrusive.

_Why the bloody hell does Mycroft want to know about our sex life? – JW_

* * *

Sherlock snorted as he read John's text. Why indeed. His brother was an annoying git, as John often liked to call him. Sherlock knew that the only reason why Mycroft was here was because of their mother, because he had to protect the family name, because he had to cover his own arse.

_Morbid curiosity? Maybe even concern. I don't care. – SH_

He tapped his foot and continued to ignore the man sitting across from him. He could feel Mycroft growing more and more restless by the second, but if Mycroft wasn't going to give him the decency to stay out of his business, then he could damn well wait while Sherlock finished his conversation with John.

* * *

Morbid curiosity indeed. John shook his head as he made his way down the hall to his next appointment. He wasn't sure about Mycroft's desire to look after Sherlock; sometimes, he wondered if Mycroft saw his younger brother as a lifelong social experiment. Perhaps when Sherlock was born, Mycroft viewed him as a specimen, and was now trying to examine this new aspect of his experiment. Sherlock was the equivalent of a super intelligent gerbil, and John was the X-factor introduced into Mycroft's research. He giggled at this idea, but at the questioning glance thrown at him by a passing nurse, John coughed and schooled his face into the serious, somber expression that people expected from their doctors. He might have saved himself the trouble; his next patient was a hypochondriac sixteen year old girl whom he treated for dozens of various imagined ailments fairly frequently. He sat across from her in the examination room, his legs crossed, hands folded in his lap, trying not to nod off as she prattled on about her newest pet illness, and her indulgent mother sat by, her face lined with concern. The consultation took a very long time. John glanced at his watch. He was running late now. When he finally escaped, John took a brief moment to shoot off a frustrated text to Sherlock. This was one of the things he loved most about being loved... being wanted... belonging. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that there was a soul on the other end of the line that cared whether or not he was having a good day, that would take the time to reply, that wanted to hear about the little things as well as the big ones. And Sherlock was that man.

_Teenage girls are so annoying – JW_

John bustled in to his next appointment. He'd have to hurry of he wanted to be home at a decent hour today.

* * *

Sherlock's hear skipped a few beats as he saw the text. _Girls? Teenage girls? What about..._ He frowned.

_Yes. They are. Why? Are they coming onto you? – SH_

For a few moments he truly forgot about his older brother sitting in John's arm chair, waiting and watching him like a hawk. All he could think of was John being hit on by some young little twit.

Mycroft was starting to get very, very angry with Sherlock at this point. His brother had this effect on him; no one else could drive Mycroft completely batty without even trying. Sherlock was acting like a stubborn child texting the man who, for all Mycroft knew, had beaten and raped him. Mycroft was well aware that Sherlock was no good with people. Mycroft was well aware that his brother was in many ways still immature at heart. He had never grown up completely. He'd never found someone he could be this attached to, and if Doctor Watson was taking advantage of that…

Mycroft pondered his next movement, wondered what to say. The last time Sherlock and he had been alone they'd spent four hours in cold silence before Sherlock had received a text from Lestrade and walked out on him. Mycroft did not want that to happen this time. He wanted this visit to be fruitful. But this was Sherlock... He would have to proceed carefully.

* * *

John giggled again. Damn Sherlock. He made him giggle. John was not a giggler. Harry would be astounded.

_I am examining them, Sherlock. – JW_

As if anyone in the entire world except for Sherlock would look twice at him. John sighed, a lazy grin on his face. He loved that Sherlock thought the entire world was out to screw John Watson. It was flattering.

* * *

_Hmmm. Are you sure they're not? You're really irresistible with those puppy dog eyes and that face of yours. I swear, every time you give me an exasperated sigh it makes me want to pick you up and squeeze you. – SH_

Sherlock smiled a little. John really didn't understand how adorable he was. It was such an attractive quality to him.

'Sherlock,' he heard Mycroft begin, 'Mummy...'

The younger man's blood turned to ice. His head shot up and he glared daggers at Mycroft. 'DON'T you talk to me about Mother! You know as well as I do that it's not entirely my fault!' he snapped. Anger. Yes, Mycroft made him so angry. He tried to guilt Sherlock into talking to him by using their mother as a weapon. Sherlock hated him for that.

Mycroft pursed his lips and sighed. 'Mummy is worried about you, Sherlock. You never come around anymore. She hears all sorts of rumours.'

'Well then I guess I should just go over and confirm them, right?' Sherlock simpered. 'Tell her that yes, I am living with someone, yes he is a man, and yes I am shagging him, and yeah, it's great.' He used his best John Watson impersonation and folded his arms, a sneer firmly settled on his battered face.

'Sherlock Holmes! Don't you dare! Mummy would have a heart attack!' Mycroft leaned forward, crumpling the magazine that sat forgotten on his lap.

'I'm sure she's already seen the papers. A picture is worth 1000 words and there are... several pictures.' Sherlock sneered.

Mycroft's eyes popped open, a vein on his forehead pulsated. 'Which is WHY, Sherlock, you have to STOP this nonsense now!'

Sherlock did not speak. Mycroft had uttered the impossible. He had just passed a boundary that neither of them even knew existed. Trying to forbid Sherlock... _Oh no, not this time._ Mycroft was not going to fuck this up for him. Not this time. Sherlock's hand gripped his mobile so hard it looked like it might break. 'What did you just say?' He asked quietly.

'John Watson is not a good influence on you.' Mycroft replied, his anger and worry under control now, his fingers finally relaxing the claw like grip they'd had on his trouser legs.

'Oh, really?' Sherlock closed his eyes. Mycroft had just said the forbidden words. One simply did not tell Sherlock what he could not do. It was just not done.

* * *

John was reclining back in his chair, his feet on his desk. He was beginning to nod off. He'd just finished his lunch and a cuppa hot tea, and he felt... rather brilliant. Despite his guilt at hurting Sherlock, despite the fact that Mycroft very likely would have his assassinated tomorrow, despite the fact that he was currently the laughing stock of Scotland Yard and his own office staff... John felt warm and fuzzy all over. He had puppy dog eyes. His thumbs dragged over his mobile keyboard lazily as he smiled.

_Me with the puppy eyes? Have you SEEN you? You're bloody gorgeous. You turn that pout on me and I literally melt into a puddle of John Watson jam. – JW_

He did, too. He stirred in his chair, squirming and trying not to moan as he pictured the hundreds of times Sherlock had turned those silver eyes on him, pleadingly, and how he had given in each and every time.

* * *

Sherlock's phone sang out in the midst of the boiling tension in the room. Sherlock looked down and felt like laughing. John Watson jam? Suddenly he knew what he had to do. He knew he was going to have to make Mycroft back off once and for all.

_I'd like to eat that jam. But I don't look… not right now at any rate. And Mycroft has just come to the real reason why he came here. I'll tell him you say hi. – SH_

Sherlock looked up at his brother and smiled a toothy, fake smile. 'Brother dear, John says hello and he hopes you're having a pleasant day.'

Mycroft glowered, all hopes of Sherlock acting like an adult quickly flying out the window. He knew that expression all too well. 'Sherlock, do TRY and pay attention to me, I am only looking out for you.'

'Ummmm, no, I don't think I will.' Those silver eyes of Sherlock's widened with pleasure as he saw the look of brief frustration pass over Mycroft's tired face.

'Sherlock, I'm warning you now. I will have to take care of this if you don't do something about it.' There was ire in Mycroft's voice, though none of it intended for his younger brother. No, he was not angry with Sherlock, simply frustrated. He saved all of the supreme rage for Sherlock's lover, for that short army doctor Mycroft had entrusted Sherlock to.

'Just you try.' Sherlock snarled angrily. 'Just you TRY.'

* * *

_WTF does he want? – JW_

John felt his heart rate rise. This couldn't be good. If it took Mycroft this long to reach his point, then it couldn't possibly be a good thing.

* * *

Sherlock's fingers were speeding across the keypad now. How dare Mycroft?! How dare he try to ruin the only truly good thing Sherlock had in his life? The only thing constantly keeping him sane?!

_Every single time. It was like this when we were children. I would get bullied and he would have them shipped off to Africa. It only stopped when I reached University. Mother put him up to it, of course. He's annoying. Always doing what Mother wants. – SH_

His leg jiggled and his eyes darted up to stare at Mycroft once more before shooting off another text.

_Doesn't think I can handle myself. – SH_

* * *

John couldn't hold still. He stood shakily, the initial nervousness of the morning back with a vengeance. Things didn't sound like they were going well at the flat. Why, oh why had he been so rough with Sherlock last night? He leaned against his window pane, looking out at the misty afternoon, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the far side of the road. He felt his throat constrict. A black sedan was parked there, and two men stood beside it in suits, hands clasped, eyes trained on the clinic. John began to tremble.

_He thinks we had a domestic and I beat you, doesn't he? Oh hell, Sherlock, there are men in suits across the street watching my building. Is he going to have me shipped off to Africa? – JW_

* * *

Sherlock's fingers froze as he read John's last text. Mycroft was having him watched? Of course he was. FUCKING. MYCROFT.

'You... are having him watched?' He asked, his voice shaking. 'You're having him WATCHED? He is MINE, Mycroft. And you DARE to-' Sherlock's tirade was cut short by Mycroft's angry retort.

'SHERLOCK.' Mycroft shouted, his face red with rage. He had finally reached the end of his rope. 'I will not stand for this… this, this, this whatever it is! John Watson has clearly been a bad influence in your life. He's brought you down to the level of ordinary people; he's made you the gossip of every idle mouth in the country. And I will not STAND for it.' Mycroft's nostrils flared, his mouth working quickly as it spouted off words he had no time to calculate. 'He needs to be taken care of, Sherlock. It's all about damage control. I can make sure you will never have to see him again.'

Sherlock's eyes flashed. John had just sent him a text. 'Those men out there... you gave them orders to kill, didn't you? They're just waiting to strike.'

Mycroft sighed, almost in relief. Had Sherlock finally grasped the situation? He could take John out so quickly, Sherlock only needed to give him the okay. 'Yes, I can see to it that John Watson will never have existed. All I need is the word. Just one little...'

'Don't you fucking dare.' Sherlock whispered, his voice low and dangerous.

'Excuse me?'

'You try anything… Mycroft, you do anything and I swear I will DESTROY you. Don't think I can't. Don't think I won't.'

'Sherlock…'

'Get out.'

'What?'

'You heard me, Mycroft.' Sherlock rose slowly to his feet to look down at his older brother, his eyes filled with hate. 'Get. Out. Of. My. Flat. NOW.' He hissed. 'And I swear,' Sherlock walked over to where Mycroft was sitting in John's chair and stooped down, resting his hands on the arms of the chair. 'If you do anything to John, if you so much as allow a finger to be laid on him, I will _burn_ you. I will burn you and the Holmes name to the ground.' The man's voice was low and menacing now, his silvery eyes narrowed to a slit. He leaned in so close to Mycroft that their noses were almost touching, his entire face was a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. 'Now, you tell those little lapdogs of yours to stay the HELL away from my lover or I will leak every single thing I know about you and this wretched family to the world. All those dirty little secrets that you've tried so _very_ hard to make disappear. I'll bring them ALL out into the light. Do you understand?'

Mycroft did not reply. His fingers were clenched so tightly the nails bit into the skin of his palms. He had never seen his little brother like this before, not even when they were children. Sherlock had always been controlled for the most part. This new emotion-showing side of him was new. It was because of John Watson.

'I said,' Sherlock snarled, 'DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!'

'Sherlock…'

'NO!' Sherlock whipped his hands back and moved away from his older brother, fury etched into every fibre of his being. 'You will leave John alone. You WILL. Now get the FUCK out of my house!'

Mycroft blanched a little. This foul mouth was also a recent development. John Watson had been a very bad influence on his little brother. He'd opened up a whole new world for Sherlock, a world that Mycroft had tried his life to protect him from. Mycroft knew that relationships, especially same sex ones, only resulted in pain for everyone. 'Very well.' He acquiesced. 'I will leave the two of you alone.' His voice was calm, it belied any feelings of anger and frustration and worry he had. Sherlock turned around, looking at the wall. His stance was still aggressive. Mycroft saw red blurs beneath the white sheet. It tore at him. He would never forget what John Watson had done to his little brother. And without another word or look back, Mycroft turned on his heel and walked out the door.

Sherlock sat back down and hurriedly typed his reply to John, hoping to comfort his lover.

_No. They'll leave soon. I told him if he really wanted a scandal then I'd give him one. If he did anything to you I would burn him and the Holmes name to the ground. – SH_

He sighed and leaned back against the sofa.

_The idea that you would beat me. Ridiculous. – SH_

* * *

_Reputation? What a prat. – JW_

John could almost see Sherlock smile. He loved it when John insulted Mycroft.

* * *

Sherlock smirked as he read John's text. John always knew what to say. Slowly, Sherlock got to his feet again and gingerly made his way into the loo. He really had absolutely no clue how he did look. 'Oh... hell.' Looking back at him was a disgustingly battered face. The bruises had, like he suspected, turned into the most violent shades of blue and purple he'd ever seen. He had a cut above his eyebrow and his lips were swollen. It was amazing his nose wasn't broken from the many times his face had been smashed against the table and the floor. The back of his head was splitting and when he touched it he felt dried blood. His eyes were slightly bloodshot, and from what he could see of the rest of his body it wasn't much better. No wonder John had felt so sick. No wonder Mycroft had given him those looks. He looked like he'd been mauled by a tiger, and in some ways, he supposed that he had. Yet Sherlock could not bring himself to be upset over these wounds. He could not begrudge them. Last night had been fucking amazing and he'd do it again in a heartbeat, even knowing what the aftermath would feel like. He lightly poked at one particularly nasty mark on his cheek and winced. Sherlock was the kind of person who liked to prod bruises. Even when he knew they would hurt, even though he knew it was childish, he still felt an irresistible urge to poke. The detective grinned at himself in the mirror. Sherlock remembered the last time John had a rather spectacular greenish purplish yellow bruise on his shin from a brawl with a prime suspect in a case they'd been working on. Sherlock kept poking at it in bed, and John kept slapping his hand away, snapping at him to stop it right away because "for fuck's sake, it bloody hurts, Sherlock"! Sherlock sighed, took out his mobile, and sat down on the toilet before replying.

_Yes. He heard about the dance. Didn't like it when I laughed in his face. Are the men gone? – SH_

* * *

Brilliant. John eyed his office door, half expecting Mycroft to materialize outside of it and demand he begin packing his bags for Uruguay or some such place. He chewed on his lip, wondering how he could speed the latter half of his day. He really wanted to be home right now, taking care of Sherlock's bruises. After all, he'd put them there.

_Yes. Good thing he hasn't heard about the office. I am never living that down. – JW_

It was true. He couldn't even walk past a nurse or the receptionist without high pitched giggles following him, and he was fairly sure he saw a copy of the gossip paper on a table in his waiting room. Unacceptable.

* * *

_I'm sure he will. He finds out about everything eventually. – SH_

Sherlock was back in the bedroom, lying down with a cup of hot tea and an ice pack on his right shoulder. He sighed and wished John was there. But he knew it probably was better that his little lover had not been present. Mycroft might have decided to do something about him then and there and Sherlock wasn't sure if he would have been up to taking Mycroft on in his current state. And hell, John probably would have felt so guilty about the state Sherlock was in that he'd take it. The sleuth closed his eyes and sighed dejectedly. He missed his army doctor even though it had been only a short while since they'd parted.

_I should have told you, but I don't think I could have stopped or formulated the words by that time, even if I'd wanted to. – SH_

* * *

John smiled. Yes, Sherlock should have told him about the damned intercom. But it made sense in a way that he didn't. Sherlock's feelings and expressions were not contingent upon social acceptance. It probably did not occur to him in the throes of arousal that there was something shameful about being overheard while shagging. It probably seemed very unimportant to him at the time. Besides... John could never stay angry at Sherlock for long. He shrugged, grinning.

_It's all right. At least no one saw us in the alley. - JW_

Yes, they'd shagged in an alley. It was a quiet, deserted spot behind a coffee shop, and it was John's idea, and he'd enjoyed it... quite thoroughly. He felt his body stir at the memory, and he blushed. He was a bad, bad man.

* * *

Sherlock ignored the pain in his ribs and let out a hearty chuckle as he recalled the alley. Yes. That had been rather glorious, all things considered. John had been so horny, so needy. And Sherlock, well, Sherlock liked it when John was desperate for his cock.

_Mhmmm. Yes. That was fantastic… we really need to do it again. – SH_

He meant it. Fucking John in the alley behind Foxcroft & Ginger was one of the best shags he'd ever had.

* * *

John let out a grunt. Hell yes, they'd have to do that again. But... next time, he wanted to indulge one of Sherlock's fantasies. Well. Other than fucking his arse with a riding crop. Or getting out the handcuffs again. Or fucking him in every corner of their flat. He moaned at that thought, his eyes automatically darting to verify that the intercom was off.

_It's your turn you know. - JW_

Sherlock would know precisely what that meant. John had been asking him for weeks if he had a particular fantasy he'd like to indulge in... Heaven knows John had plenty.

* * *

Sherlock bit his lip as he read John's text. He'd been avoiding answering that very question ever since the alley when John told him that next time they'd live out one of Sherlock's fantasies. He was perfectly happy playing out all of John's fantasies, but one of his own… The sleuth was perturbed. The simple fact was that he was already living out his fantasy. And he did not want to admit his fantasy to John for fear that it would seem childish. Still... this was John, John would not laugh. He hoped.

_This will sound silly, but I don't think I have a fantasy. Just… waking up with you and having you around… I'm going to shut up now. You'd better not be laughing. – SH_

Sherlock hid his head in a nearby pillow, his cheeks bright pink. He knew no one was around to see him, but he still felt embarrassed. Such a simply, silly thing. He shouldn't have said anything. He should have just looked up a few sites and picked the most appealing thing first. He just... he wanted to be with John. He wanted to spend all day with John, wake up with him, eat with him, walk with him, watch some inane telly show with him, sit on the sofa with his legs propped over John's while they both read books, solve crimes with him, risk his life with him, sleep with him... it had always been something Sherlock had wanted. Always.

* * *

John stared at his phone for ten whole minutes. Sherlock... John felt like a royal prat. If he'd been asked what his fantasies regarding Sherlock were, he would probably have launched in to a long laundry list of things he wanted to try, to show, to learn together in bed. Crazy things. Hot things. Things that made him want to scream just thinking about them. But Sherlock... John felt like blubbing. Instead, he dragged his sleeve over his nose, and typed slowly back:

_That's the loveliest thing anyone's ever said to me – JW_

Suddenly, he realized with crystal clarity.. that was his fantasy too. The greatest one he'd ever had. More Sherlock, every single day for the rest of his bloody life. He wanted to go home right now.

* * *

Sherlock glared at his phone. John was laughing at him, he just knew it. Alright, it was silly, it was simple. John probably had expected some dark and dirty fantasy like... like... Well, Sherlock couldn't really think of one right then, but that was beside the point! The point was John was teasing him and he did _not_ appreciate it. It had taken a lot of courage to admit to his "fantasy".

_Don't tease. – SH_

He pouted, hiding his face in the pillow yet again.

* * *

"Oh, Sherlock," John breathed, adoringly.

_I am not teasing, Sherlock. You are... wholly beautiful and perfect. – JW_

He meant it with every fiber of his being.

* * *

If Sherlock had been pink before it was nothing like the particular shade he was now. John always, always knew the right things to say. He felt his insecurities washing away. Sherlock wanted to see John so badly he felt as though he would burst.

_Would you… when you come home would you just lie by me for a little while? I would like that. I don't think I will be up for sex tonight. Just want to sleep with you. – SH_

He couldn't ask John to skip work now. John had done that far too often; as Sherlock was constantly reminded by how many times his lover woke up at the crack of dawn to go into work early.

* * *

Hmm. John glanced at his mobile as he perused a patient chart, his hand on the door of their exam room. As he knocked and let himself in, an idea began to form. It lodged in his frontal lobe and grew, until it was preoccupying his mind, his every thought. His fingers were twitching as they typed out his response during a quick run to the loo. He didn't have to relieve himself so much as he wanted an excuse for a moment of privacy to answer Sherlock. And in the clinic, the only REAL privacy he got was when he was using the damned toilet. John stood, wavering a moment just inside the door, his breath hitching in his chest. If Sherlock would let him do this... John knew his lover. Once Sherlock experienced what John had in store for him tonight, there would be no going back. He'd be completely... totally... addicted. How could he not be?

_I have a better idea. I am bringing home some warming oil. Be naked and lying on your stomach in bed. – JW_

He glanced at the clock. Just a couple more hours. Oh, this could be good. It could be very, very good. John would make up for last night; he would make up for it the rest of his life.

* * *

Sherlock heard his phone blip again and he looked at it, he had been getting a little sleepy waiting for John's reply. He blinked owlishly, willing the sleep away. _Warming oil? Naked?_ He mentally shrugged and sluggishly brought up his other hand to type in his reply.

_Alright. – SH_

Whatever John had planned it sounded perfect.

* * *

John was washing his hands when Sherlock's reply came in. He hesitated. Sherlock's reply was short. Perhaps he needed to clarify.

_No sex. I promise. - JW_

He snorted. That was novel for them.

* * *

The sleuth groaned. John just had to mention sex. Sherlock was annoyed that he was not physically capable of fucking John Watson or even being fucked by him. It was excruciatingly aggravating.

_Want sex. But I don't think I can right now. – SH_

* * *

And he giggled again. John should have been used to it by now, should have expected it. But each and every time that sound came bubbling from his chest, it surprised him. He rolled his eyes at himself, and hurriedly shot a text back to Sherlock. He then dropped his mobile in his desk. He was so fucking late. If he was ever going to get out of here today, he needed to stop texting his lover.

_No, no sex for you. Just a two hour massage and lots of sleep. Doctor's orders. - JW_

John rushed off to hurry through his last appointments. He needed to get home to Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock snorted, slightly put out. He didn't like being denied sex, even if he knew he wouldn't be able to do it anyway, he still didn't like being told he couldn't. _Ah well,_ he yawned and snuggled down deeper into the covers. He would wait for his lover. A massage sounded damn good right now, anyway. John had been promising Sherlock a proper massage ever since one night a few months ago when Sherlock had strained his shoulder on a crime scene and John had demanded that they go home right away. Sherlock smiled as he remembered how attentive John had been. He'd sat Sherlock down on the floor next to the sofa and told Sherlock to remove his shirt. He'd then proceeded to gently massage the shoulder with great skill. Sherlock had been so completely turned on by that action that John never got to finish the massage.

_I'll be on our bed. – SH_

_I'm never leaving the bed_ ; he thought grimly and typed another message out, just to poke at John a little.

_Haven't bothered to dress all day. – SH_

* * *

John did not look at his mobile again until his last patient was gone, and he was pulling his leather jacket over his arms. He set out for the pharmacy on the corner, and as he walked, light rain beading on his face, he pulled out his phone to check the messages. "Oh.." John set his jaw in a grim line. Damn that Sherlock Holmes. He wasn't going to make this easy.

_I promised to be good, Sherlock. I never promised not to look. - JW_

He thought a moment, and had to stifle a laugh as he slipped into the fluorescent lighting of the 24 hour pharmacy.

_You didn't dress for Mycroft? - JW_

He wasn't surprised. John chuckled as his hands quested for a bottle of warming oil. He was going to ensure that this was the most pleasant evening Sherlock had spent in a long time.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes dragged open once again as he heard his mobile go off. He knew that the reason for him being so tired was his internal system trying to heal, but he didn't care. John was more important than that. He read the message and frowned. His phone sounded out again, but he didn't bother to read the second message, he was too busy trying to convince John to veto his first one.

_I'm sure a little petting won't hurt. – SH_

And then he read the second one. Hah. Him? Dress for Mycroft? Absurd!

_I had a sheet on. He was the one who barged into my room. Why should I get dressed for him? – SH_

* * *

John stood in the rain, his arm out for a cab. He climbed inside, oil in hand, and breathed a sigh of relief. What a bloody long day. It seemed every day away from Sherlock was a bloody long one. He smirked at Sherlock's responses, shaking his head fondly.

_After the massage, and you are completely limp, then we will worry about petting. And licking perhaps. - JW_

John had to admit, the prospect of licking and petting a helpless, limp, and wounded Sherlock was... appealing. To bring him to full attention, slowly, just with gentle fingers and a flicking tongue... John shifted in the back seat of the cab, his cheeks reddening. "Sherlooock," he murmured softly, and grew even hotter as the cabbie's eyes darted to him in the rear view mirror. John noted the photo of his family... one of the boy's faces was torn in half. John wondered why. He licked his lips, turning his attention back to his phone and trying desperately to ignore the erection that threatened to manifest. It wasn't working.

* * *

Sherlock let out a satisfied sigh and carefully rolled out from the covers and onto his stomach, the sheet crumpled at the bottom of the bed.

_Sounds perfect. You're doing all the work. – SH_

He knew that he'd want to try and do something to John, he knew it, but he also knew that John wouldn't let him. Sherlock pouted a little. He really was looking forward to the massage, he'd never had one before and he wasn't quite sure what to expect. After a few moments contemplation on the evening before him, he was asleep.


	4. Making Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes home to his bruised lover, and, after much apologising, gives Sherlock a much needed massage... and maybe a bit more.

John called out Sherlock's name as he reached the threshold of their flat. At the foot of the stairs, he'd deftly avoided Mrs. Hudson's queries about when her boys were going to join her again for dinner, and a gentle reminder that the rent was a week late. He let himself in the door, easing his jacket off of his shoulders, eyes trained on Sherlock's bedroom. The door was ajar, and John felt his heart stutter. He toed off his shoes, and called for his lover again. Sherlock did not respond. John shuffled over to the bedroom, and stuck his head inside. He stifled a moan. Sherlock was lying on top of the blankets, completely nude, his head cradled in a fluffy pillow, his torso rising and falling as he snored. By the dim light of the setting sun, John could see the bruises scattered across that milky white flesh, and if not for the throbbing pangs of guilt, John would have possibly seen them as beautiful. They were so very colorful, spreading across his thighs and hips, contrasting nicely with the scarlet welts on his back, the raked fingernail marks. John flushed, chewing on his lip. He glanced at Sherlock's peaceful face, and sighed. He hated to wake him... John turned on his heel and climbed the stairs to his old bedroom. He snatched a bathrobe and a pair of fresh socks, and made his way to the shower. He'd let Sherlock sleep for a while. His body needed that rest, needed time to recuperate and heal. A shower and perhaps a cuppa tea. And then... he smiled as he stepped into the steaming hot water, ignoring the stir in his groin. Tonight was not for him.

 

Tonight was all about Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes blearily and blinked a few times, turning his head to look at the clock. 7:08. He vaguely wondered whether it was morning or evening. His whole body throbbed and his head wasn't much better. Christ, he needed water and a cigarette. Reluctantly he sat up and yawned. The nicotine patches were in the second drawer of his bureau. Shit. Where was John? Hesitantly he stood up, trying very hard not to make any sudden movements. Leaning against various bits of furniture, he made his way to the black lacquer bureau and, with a hiss of pain, crouched down. Really, he thought to himself, after last night he damn well deserved a cigarette, but he knew John would not approve. Sherlock sighed and rested his forehead on the cool wood, closing his eyes and as he just sat there, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal, waiting for the pain to subside. He wanted this part of the healing process to be over. Now.

"Sherlock?" John appeared in the doorway, his eyes wide. He stood wavering, one hand holding a tea cup, the other, a frosted plastic bottle of oil. Both were hastily deposited on the night stand, and he rushed to Sherlock's side, snatching him by the elbows. "Sherlock, get back into bed! Doctor's orders, remember? What the hell are you doing?" He guided him back to the mattress slowly, concern etched on every feature, his grip gentle on Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock grumbled as John steered him to the bed and made him lie down. 'Getting a patch. Need cigarettes.' He said, his voice still somewhat thick from sleep. The detective rubbed his eyes and yawned. 'Hello.' He looked up at John and smiled sleepily.

John sat next to him for a half second, just long enough to assess Sherlock's state of mind from those clear eyes. Wonder of wonders, he really wasn't angry with John. The doctor had half expected to come home and find his lover seething after a long day of contemplation over what John had done to him the night before. But no, Sherlock looked tired, and sore... but not angry. John shook his head, standing up and walking smartly over to the bureau. He retrieved a patch, and handed it to Sherlock with a soft smile. "Here." There was an unspoken "thank you for not smoking" in there somewhere, and Sherlock heard it. John knew he did. They stayed there a moment, eyeing one another fondly. John shuffled. "Cuppa?"

Sherlock carefully settled the patch on his forearm and let out a satisfied sigh. He looked at his lover standing before him and nodded. Tea sounded brilliant. 'Did you have a good day? Despite the scare from Mycroft, I mean.'

"Oh, yeah," John snorted, sliding the tea cup carefully into Sherlock's hands. He noted the tremble in those long fingers, and he frowned. Sherlock was in pain. "What's a day without an impending death threat or two?" John stepped back to the dresser, pulled out a drawer, sifted through the bottles within. He sat next to Sherlock, slipping two pills in his hand. "Take these. Don't ask, just take them and lie down." He purposefully used that forceful tone that Sherlock instinctively obeyed. He smiled when the detective's face immediately changed... became childish... obedient.

Sherlock rolled the tablets in his fingers for about a half a second before popping them both in his mouth and swallowing them down with a swig of peppermint tea. The detective was about 80% sure they were some sort of pain medication, 18 % sure they were a sleeping pill, the few remaining percentages were left for the wild, somewhat hopeful speculation that they were a narcotic. Sherlock smiled at the idea of John giving him drugs. John, unlike Mycroft, was not an enabler. He yawned once more and settled down stomach first on the bed, absurdly happy that John was there.

John tilted his head a moment, enjoying the view. He looked down at himself, swallowing hard. He was in his bathrobe, his hair still damp, his body naked beneath. He wanted badly to shed the robe, and do this nude, but... he glanced at Sherlock's prostrate form again, at the beautiful slope of his back, the round fullness of his arse, the lean lines of his thighs, and the peek of rosy testicles between his buttocks. John chuckled. No, he had better keep his robe on. He stood and walked round to the table where he'd deposited the oil, and sank down on the mattress next to Sherlock's curly head. "So.. did you placate him? Mycroft, I mean." He poured a bit into his hands, and began rubbing them together. The oil warmed immediately, a heated, slippery sensation that felt glorious.

Sherlock chuckled a little. 'I suppose you could call it that.' He felt John rustle around beside him and closed his eyes, his face buried in the comfortable pillow. 'He shouldn't be bothering us again over that.' Sherlock murmured. The sleuth would protect John no matter what. He would have completely ruined Mycroft without blinking if his older brother had done something to John.

Suddenly Sherlock felt warm, oily hands touch the small of his back and he let out a hiss of pleasure and surprise. He felt John smile through the hands on his back. 'Hmmmm...' he moaned, his voice somewhat muffled by the fluffy pillow. God. The firm, even pressure felt good.

John smiled broadly as he slid his hands over Sherlock's back, from the base of his spine all the way up, up to his shoulder blades. The oil was magnificent, glimmering on his flesh, warm and growing warmer by the second. He watched as Sherlock squirmed, sinking deeper into the bed, his fingers going slack on the sheets. "Tell me where it hurts, Sherlock," John urged. He wanted to bring him relief, bring him some comfort.

Sherlock snorted. Where didn't it hurt? But he wasn't about to tell John that. 'My shoulders got somewhat jarred.' He sighed, 'my arms are still a little sore.' He wasn't lying, but he wasn't entirely telling the whole truth. Last night his arms had been twisted and held in a painfully unnatural position for a lot longer than was good for them. They felt like rubber, and not the good kind of "feeling like rubber" feeling, either. His legs constantly sent stabs of pain to his brain, and his arse throbbed like hell, the back of his head felt like he'd been trounced with a metal bat, and he couldn't walk around very well without pausing for a few seconds to regain his balance and breath. Still, he did not want to make John feel any worse than he already did.

"Your shoulders." John sat back and viewed the damage. He sighed, shaking his head and swinging his leg over Sherlock's body to straddle his thighs, keeping all of his weight on his own knees. He would not cause this man a second's more pain for as long as he lived. "You're a bloody liar, Sherlock." John's hands started at the base of his spine again, and began to knead softly, oil generously slathered on his palms, working their way up to his mid back and showering attention there. The noises and moans that began to pour out of Sherlock were nothing less than sinful. John grinned, his thumbs working the muscle, his hands studiously avoiding the bruises. "Is this... all right?" he asked, rather breathlessly. Beneath him, Sherlock's lean body was writhing gently against the sheets, and it was damned distracting.

Sherlock let out a low groan in reply. It felt fucking amazing. 'John...' he gasped as those nimble fingers stroked one particularly sore knot near his shoulder blade, 'I think you must be a god.' Sherlock arched his back, meeting the sensual pressure his lover's hands were creating on his poor, battered body.

John giggled. Oh hell, he should just give it up for a bad business and stop fighting so much. Sherlock made him giggle. It was a scientific fact that John Watson had never giggled once in his life before he met Sherlock Holmes, and now, it was a daily occurrence. He let his fingers dance to Sherlock's neck, and he winced at the plain as day bruises there... four fingers and a thumb. He'd held him down while he fucked him. He'd held him down on the table by his neck while he fucked him. John blushed fiercely. He began to stroke his neck gently, long, loving strokes, and his left hand wandered to rub comforting circles into his hip. "Sherlock..."

'Hmmmmmmmmmm?' Sherlock's entire body was quickly turning into a boiled noodle of pleasure. The pain had ceased a few minutes after he'd taken the pills and those pliant digits on the back of his neck were transforming his insides into jelly. John Watson was so good at making Sherlock feel complete and utter bliss.

John paused in his attentions. Sherlock's entire back, neck, and shoulders were golden and shimmering in the low light. He was oiled, and bruised, and lovely. John felt hot tears stinging the corners of his eyes. He bent, carefully, placing nary a feather's weight of pressure on his body, and he brushed thin lips against the nape of his neck. "Fuck, Sherlock, I'm so sorry," he breathed, his chest hitching. "I'm so fucking sorry."

Sorry? _Sorry?_ Sherlock began to struggle a little, trying to turn onto his back, fuck the welts. He'd take a thousand times more pain than this. 'Don't you dare.' He whispered hotly, lifting his arm up and searching for John. 'Don't you even think about it, John Hamish Watson. I love you and you have nothing to be sorry for.' Warm, watery drops splashed onto Sherlock's naked back and he felt a sudden weight in his chest. He had made John cry. 'Don't cry, John, please.' His hand found John's leg and he squeezed it lightly, 'please don't cry.'

A sob ripped from John's throat, and he struggled not to collapse onto the bed and cry like a child. His fingertips touched each and every bruise on his young lover's body, and they all cried out to him, accusing. "Damn it, Sherlock," he grated through his teeth. Sherlock's face was full of distress. John wiped his eyes roughly, suddenly remembering how uncomfortable Sherlock was with weeping, how insecure it made him. Sherlock, the man who could cry on demand, had only ever truly wept one time. And John had not even been close enough to see it. He sniffed, shaking his head and forcing a smile. "It's all right, Sherlock, I'm fine. Just... maybe we can play a little less rough for a while, hm?" He tossed his chin, pressing his head back down into the pillow gently. "Let's keep a low profile, let Mycroft get off our backs... maybe no riding crops or handcuffs for a few weeks. We can manage to have quiet, normal sex, can't we?"

Sherlock was not fooled by the lightness in John's tone. He felt terrible. John was crying because of him. 'Fuck that, John! I'd do this again and again and again. That was some of the best sex I've ever had. I wanted it hard, I wanted it painful, I wanted it like that. I pushed you into it John, I knew what I was doing, don't think I didn't.' Sherlock pulled his elbows underneath him and pushed his back up, turning to look at John. 'You were not at fault.' Sherlock's eyes glowed fiercely in the dimly lit room. 'I mean, it John, you have no need to apologise.'

"Perhaps." John scooted down, kneeling between Sherlock's ankles. His hands wrapped around them tightly, slick and dripping, and he began to squeeze, working his way up those smooth calves. Oh, the skin felt incredible, soft and pliant beneath his strong fingers. "You did bait me, after all." John smirked, and leaned up as he massaged the muscles of Sherlock's legs, digging his thumbs into the hollow of his joints, and he placed a delicate kiss on the dimples of Sherlock's arse. "Let's keep the violence to a minimum for a while just the same. For me, Sherlock. For my sake. Just... get better and fuck me like a normal human being for a few weeks." John felt the grumble beginning in Sherlock's throat, and he cut it off. "At least keep up appearances. If you're going to flog me, do it someplace less visible."

Sherlock let out a little 'harrumph' and flopped back down onto his pillow, unable to support himself as those devilish fingers steadily worked their way up his legs. Sherlock hummed appreciatively as they reached his backside. He felt John roll his knuckles against the flesh and moaned. His whole body felt relaxed, felt slack. Sherlock wondered if he'd ever be able to move again since his bones had magically been converted into mush.

John hissed lowly, unable to prevent the natural stirrings of his rebellious body. Sherlock was whimpering beneath him as his hands steadily rubbed and squeezed his buttocks. The round, soft flesh gave way under his fingers, and John groaned a little, fighting the urge to bite it. Damn, Sherlock had turned him into a sadist. He trembled as he massaged his arse, spreading those pale cheeks, dragging his eyes over the tight pucker between them. It was still red, still inflamed from last night's copulating. John took a jagged breath. He'd shoved his dick in there. Hard. He'd rammed it in without preparation, without the gentility that always accompanied their sexual encounters, and now, he could not help but remember how delicious it had felt. He grazed one finger over Sherlock's entrance, shuddering. "You... are so beautiful," he whispered.

Sherlock felt himself clench a little as John's finger brushed against the sore spot between his cheeks. _Oh shit_. Sherlock's face warmed up; his body begin to get aroused. This was so embarrassing. John had told him there would be no sex. Sherlock had thought he could handle that, but apparently he was wrong. Couldn't he hold himself together for a little while? Was he so weak that he couldn't take a massage without getting a fucking hard on? He closed his eyes and pulled the pillow up a little more, trying to completely cover his pink face. John's words, John's hands... that was all it took for Sherlock to become hopelessly and helplessly turned on. He couldn't help it, he really couldn't. He was just addicted to his army doctor.

John felt his face heat, his lips tremble. He shivered, gasping a bit as Sherlock's body tensed, and he felt a surge of shame. Sherlock was sore there, and John was touching him out of sheer desire. But then... a low moan escaped his lover's lips, and John stared up at him, recognizing the tremor in Sherlock's body. Arousal. He knew he should continue the massage, let Sherlock just lie back and enjoy it... but John could not resist one more moment of self indulgence. With shaking hand, he coated two fingers with oil, and slid them back between Sherlock's buttocks once more, pressing them gently against the red pucker, slippery, wet, and exploring. He did not push them inside, but simply danced around the rim, flicking them, listening to Sherlock's mewls.

Sherlock moved against John's fingers without meaning to. _Damn it!_ John was being cruel, he really was. 'hnnnnnnnn.' Sherlock pulled the pillow tighter around his head, trying to completely muffle out the sounds that were leaping unbidden from his throat. He tried to will his body to behave, his cock to cease its activities, his backside to stop rocking against John's fingers. _Damn it!_ Sherlock was supposed to be the master of himself, he was supposed to always be in control. 'Fuuuuucccck,' he whined as John continued to delicately trace the ring of muscles.

Shit. Sherlock was moaning. Not whining, not grunting, but moaning, a deep, guttural, needy sound. It went straight to John's cock. He shifted on the bed between Sherlock's legs, his blood pumping hotly through his temples, throbbing, and shooting directly down past his abdomen and stomach to settle in his groin. Sherlock moaned again, something that sounded suspiciously like his name mingled with a drawn out expletive, and he wriggled his hips a bit, spreading his legs, giving John easy access. John's breath caught. He hesitated, his fingers still tracing circles on his inflamed entrance, and then... John let his hand drift lower, tickling Sherlock's balls, teasing them. His face felt warm. Sherlock was lying, completely limp and relaxed, his face slack, and he was at John's mercy. They couldn't fuck; that was perhaps the one thing that was turning John on more than anything right now. He couldn't fuck Sherlock... he'd ravaged him so fiercely the day before that Sherlock was going to be bedridden for another day at least, and sore for a good deal longer than that. And Sherlock sure as hell couldn't fuck John. He could barely move. There would be no crazed shag this evening, so frantic fucking far into the night. But John could not prevent the touches, the lingering caresses, the gasps and hissing as he moved his well lubricated hands over his lover's body. Sherlock jumped as he began to knead his balls, tugging them gently, calloused fingers fondling them. John's eyelashes fluttered. "I'm sorry," he whispered again, watching wit fascination as Sherlock's body opened up, impossibly further. "I can't help it, Sherlock. You're so fucking pretty. I can't help it."

Sherlock whimpered. John's words were liquid sex to the sleuth's ears. He burrowed his head down into the pillow until his chin was touching his breastbone. 'Stop teasing me.' He snapped weakly. John had forbidden sex, and Sherlock knew he wasn't up to it, but that didn't mean he couldn't get fucking turned on. He wiggled his arse a little, feeling blood pool down into his groin. 'Damn you, John! You're being mean!' He whined as John's fingers brushed the insides of his thighs. Even Sherlock's ears were pink now. John was being gentle, sweet, caressing him and whispering loving words softly. Sherlock wanted to sit up and kiss John, to force him to stop teasing and do something… substantial, but he didn't think he could manage that. The exertion from yesterday combined with the massage had left him incapacitated. Sherlock doubted he could even raise his arms for a very long time.

John stopped touching. He needed to control himself. He had a massive erection, and was seriously fighting the urge to push his fingers inside that arse. Fuck. Fucking Sherlock. He took several deep breaths, focusing on the task at hand. This was not time for sex games. That time would come later. Maybe in a few days. He glanced down at Sherlock's naked, trembling body, and groaned. Maybe tomorrow. If Sherlock was up for it. John exhaled slowly, and patted his hand on Sherlock's hip. "I need to turn you over, Sherlock. Come on now." He wedged his hands under Sherlock's stomach, and gave him an encouraging nudge.

Sherlock's eyes popped open. _Oh no, not that._ John couldn't turn him over. Being on his stomach was the only thing keeping him down, so to speak. Sherlock struggled against John's slippery hands. 'No! It's okay. No, we don't need to do that! Let's... you've done more than enough. Let's just stop.' Sherlock tried to move away from his lover, but John's strong arms captured his waist, making sure not to hold onto him too tightly. Sherlock felt like shouting out and kicking his arms and legs as John slowly but firmly turned him on his back. The army doctor said nothing, just stared at Sherlock. Sherlock simply folded his arms and glared. 'It's your damn fault.' He muttered petulantly. The sleuth's cheeks turned a violent shade of crimson. Sherlock couldn't help it; he couldn't control himself when it came to John.

No matter how many times he saw it, and by this point, he'd seen it more times than he could count, John Watson never got used to the raw, pagan beauty of Sherlock Holmes' erect cock. He salivated at the sight of it, rosy and flushed, twitching, inviting, and he had to turn away and look at the wall for a moment. He'd ridden that monster, a hundred times or more, and fuck if it wasn't better every single time than the last. John regulated his breathing, taking a chance and meeting Sherlock's eyes briefly. He immediately wished he hadn't. Sherlock's eyes were blown, lidded, full of undisguised lust. He rubbed his face, grunting. "Sherlock... I didn't mean to." John squeezed his eyes shut, and shook his head. "I'm just... going to start with your shoulders, okay?" If he ignored it... if he continued the massage and pretended not to notice the gorgeous jutting flesh between Sherlock's legs... perhaps he could accomplish his task, ease his conscience, and maybe even make up for the ridiculous liberties he'd taken with Sherlock's body. John drizzled more oil in his palms, looking anywhere but down.

A lazy smile spread across the detective's face as he saw John's obvious discomfort, as he saw the way John was pointedly not looking at his cock. He also noticed that John's body was not acting quite so innocent, either. Sherlock moaned a little as he moved his arms, putting them around John's waist as best he could. 'Why don't you just sit on my stomach? It'll be easier for you to reach. I don't mind.' Sherlock's smile had turned somewhat wicked as he raked over John's body, clad only in a white bathrobe, his hair mostly dry. Sherlock patted his stomach lightly, 'come on, John.' He purred. 'Sit.'

John wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to. He breathed a little faster, goose flesh popping on the back of his neck as he took in the beautiful cut of Sherlock's shoulders, his chest. It was covered in bitemarks. Despite his mind's protestations, John felt his body move, crawling up to straddle Sherlock's stomach. Once more, his thighs supported his weight; he would not cause Sherlock any more pain. John's eyes flickered to the pert nipples, so tempting, and he coughed. "Right, then." He leaned down, slick hands making their way to Sherlock's thin shoulders, sliding down to his biceps, and John began to roll them in his palms and fingers. They flexed beneath his touch, and his cock jumped. Sherlock was much stronger than people gave him credit for. That was a fucking turn on. He blushed, and rocked back a moment to retrieve the bottle. The moment he did, John's arse brushed the hungry erection between Sherlock's legs, and they both gasped, arching. John felt his cheeks flood with heat. "Dammit," he muttered, and scowled up at his lover as Sherlock chuckled. "You think it's funny, do you?"

'Mmmhmmmm.' Sherlock was glad John wanted him. It made him feel a lot better, so much better than any apology could have made him feel. 'I know you said no sex, John, but you're really pushing it.' Sherlock traced a finger against John's ankle, resisting the urge to rock against John. A lick of pleasure ran through his body as he felt John shudder. Sherlock redoubled his efforts, gently rubbing the arch of John's foot, making slow, lazy circles on the heel. Sherlock was seriously turned on by this situation and it galled him that he couldn't do anything about it. There was no way he could over power John in this state, and even if he managed to, it wasn't like he would have enough energy to do anything about the damn erection.

"Hnn.. mmph... Sheeerlock..." John caught himself moaning, and he clapped his mouth shut. DAMN this wicked, wicked man! He slapped at Sherlock's hand playfully, turning a scolding expression on him. "Don't start." His hands were lazily drifting to Sherlock's collarbone, and he pulled them down to knead at those pectorals... one of Johns favorite things about Sherlock's body. Sherlock was not an overly muscular man. When John met him, he was bone thin and needed fattening up in the worst way. But now... now... John sighed in appreciation for the softness of the skin, the firm muscle below, the blushing nubs of his nipples as John worshipped the well formed body of his flat mate. It was bloody perfect. Not too bulky. Not too thin. Slender, and toned. John loved it. He wandered to the stomach, wet fingers finding and tracing each abdomen muscle. Sherlock's stomach flexed as John maneuvered himself down to straddle his hips, that persistent erection now pressing against the seat of his bathrobe. John smiled mischievously as Sherlock tossed his head on the pillow. He continued to rub further and further down, until his hands were sliding on narrow hips. John swallowed. Sherlock was straining. He wasn't relaxed. How could he be? His cock was engorged and throbbing. He chewed on his lip. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock's legs straightened out, stiff as a board as John's wicked fingers kneaded his body. He was hard, damn it, and so fucking turned on. Without the convenience of the pillow covering his face, Sherlock had nothing to muffle his voice. He'd been so good about keeping it under control until John said his name. The sleuth's arms shot up to his face and he hid his eyes in the crook of his elbow covering his mouth with his other arm. John was concerned, but his hands did not stop moving, they kept rubbing against Sherlock's skin, making the situation even worse. Sherlock wanted to relax, he wanted to just go with it, but this was too much. The stimulation was too much. Sherlock had never had a massage in his life, not to mention it was John giving him one. There was no way Sherlock could have prepared himself for this level of pleasure, this kind of sensation. 'I'm sorry, John, I can't help it. I can't... nnnngggg!' He moaned and arched his back a little as John's thumbs rubbed the hollows of his hips. 'It's too much...'

John nodded, his face reflecting a world of empathy. "You need release."

Sherlock's cheeks were once more flooded with colour as he nodded wordlessly. 'You should just stop now.' Was his miserable reply.

"Okay." John ceased his ministrations, cocking his head and smirking at his young lover. Sherlock stared back at him in surprise, and John fixed him with a piercing gaze. "I want your word, Sherlock. Your solemn vow. You are not going to move. You are not going to strain yourself. Swear to me you will just lie back and let me do all the work. Your hands have to stay at your sides, your legs on the bed. You aren't allowed to move, understand? Swear it. Swear it... and I will give you release." He crossed his arms over his chest, jaw set.

Sherlock gulped and nodded once more, vigorously. Hope alighted inside him at the prospect of John "giving him release". He would do his best, he would try. 'I swear.'

John pursed his lips, and shugged. "All right." He lifted his eyebrows then with a grin, and began to slowly, languorously move his body down to kneel once more between Sherlock's wide-spread thighs. It was everything he could do not to shout his exultation. If he'd been forced to finish this massage without touching Sherlock's cock, he would have imploded. John adjusted himself, lying on his stomach, the tip of his nose nuzzling into Sherlock's inner thigh affectionately. "You smell good," he breathed. Sherlock always smelled good. Like soap, and gunpowder, and cologne. Now, he could smell the musky scent of Sherlock's sex as well, and he darted his tongue out to trace a line from the base of his cock to the head. "Fuck, yes," he groaned. Sherlock tasted even better than he smelled. John glanced up to check on him, his tongue lapping gently at his balls.

Sherlock's arms had been lying at his sides in a somewhat relaxed manner, but now they were ramrod straight, his hands clenching the sheets tightly. John's tongue swirled around his balls, licking at the base of his cock, his breath hot against Sherlock's sensitive skin. 'Fffffffuuuuucccccccck!' he moaned, trying not to move, trying to behave.

John smiled, his mouth wide open, sucking Sherlock's testicles deep inside, tongue flat and hot against them, teeth grazing the skin. "Not today," he murmured, laughing softly. He sucked harder, rolling them around his mouth, moaning in appreciation as Sherlock twitched and flexed. "Mmmmmm..." John let them go with a pop, and he nipped, oh, so very gently, at the head of Sherlock's cock. "Sherlock," he whispered, teeth grazing the rim, nose burying in dark curls at the base, "tell me what would feel good, love. Tell me what you want."

'I want,' he bit out frustratedly, 'to shag you fucking senseless.' Sherlock closed his eyes and clenched and unclenched his hands in the linens. 'That would feel great right about now.'

John couldn't help it. His hips thrust themselves into the mattress at those words, and he let out a long, mournful whine. His hole spasmed at that, and he panted, licking a thick, wet trail up and down Sherlock's cock. "Yesssss.." he grunted, grinding his erection down into the soft bed. "But that can't happen tonight. His sandy blonde head peeked up from between Sherlock's legs, and he shot him a flirtatious grin. "Want me to suck you off instead?" It was so matter of fact, so simple, so innocently spoken. John appeared positively delighted by the prospect.

Sherlock whimpered at the way John asked it so nonchalantly, like it was the most normal thing in the world, and maybe it was. God knows it felt that way. He reached his hand down and touched John's cheek with an almost timid hand. 'Like I'm going to turn that down.' He gave John a lopsided grin. 'Idiot.'

"I said not to move." John twisted to kiss that hand very swiftly, and he bit one finger with sharp teeth. Sherlock hissed, and John turned back to his cock. He wasted no time. He hadn't sucked Sherlock for over 24 hours, and he missed it like hell. John pondered that for a moment as he took the entire length in his mouth in one quick movement, his mouth full, full of Sherlock, full of his taste and his flesh and the salty burn of precum on the back of his throat. John hummed, his tongue laving it thickly, teeth scraping the veins, and he brought his hands up to tease at Sherlock's balls while he sucked. Up and down, fingertips rustling in short curls, his head bobbing, heart racing, his own cock jostling against the sheets. John fucking loved this. He listened with pleasure as Sherlock began to pant, and those noises, those damned beautiful noises, started pouring from him.

Sherlock had been about to ask his lover when exactly had he ever turned down an offer to get sucked off by John. But right before his lips parted to ask the somewhat snarky question, John closed his mouth around Sherlock's cock and somehow the words got lost in translation. God, his army doctor was so fucking good at this. The way his tongue managed to press against the underside of Sherlock's throbbing cock and rub it with maddening precision and force, the way his teeth applied just the right amount of pressure… John was a fucking god when it came to oral sex. Sherlock didn't need any other experience with anyone else to be absolutely positive about that fact. Sherlock threw his long arms up and grasped helplessly at the pillow, tossing his head and moaning. He screwed his eyes shut and tried not to thrust his hips. It was near impossible, but he had to at least try. He had promised John.

"Fucking hell, yes.." John was so turned on he couldn't think. Sherlock was whimpering beneath him, his arms tense and his muscles standing out against his flesh as he tried desperately not to give in to the sensations and just fuck the hell out of John's mouth. Oh... John moaned loudly around his cock, the visuals flooding his mind. He loved that feeling, when Sherlock grabbed what little tufts of hair he could get his fingers in on the top of John's head, spread his legs, and started slamming his cock down John's throat without mercy... The friction of the bed against his shaft was driving him mad. He continued to thrust, quickening his pace as he devoured Sherlock, one hand grasping the base of his cock tightly. John showered attention on the head, tonguing the edge, dipping it into the slit, whining and rubbing his face into it. He drank him down again, over and over, and realized at some point, he was moaning Sherlock's name with every motion. "Sherlock... Sherlock..." Long lick up the shaft. "mmm... fuck you taste..." Hard bite into the head. "so fucking good... I..." Heavy sucking, loud slurps, fuck his cock was hard. "I could cum just sucking your huge cock.. I can't wait until it's inside me again." John was babbling. He was going down on Sherlock Holmes, and those sounds were all for him. His arse flexed, hungry for the possessive filling that dick provided.

Sherlock whipped his head around, moaning nonsensical sounds. John's words filled his ears. The sounds of him desperately sucking Sherlock off drove the sleuth wild. He wanted John so badly. This was fucking hot, so good, but... 'Johnnnnnnnn!' He whimpered. 'More, more, more, more!' Sherlock bucked into John's mouth just a little, he couldn't help it. He needed more friction. He so badly wanted to feel the hot, tight inside that was John's arse. Sherlock's shoulders slammed against the bed as he arched his chest, moaning and writhing underneath his lover's ministrations. 'Hnnnnnnnnnnnnn, Johnnnnnnnnnnn!'

John wanted to tell Sherlock to stop moving, to hold still, but he couldn't. He was too busy humping the mattress, sucking cock, and nearly sobbing in frustration. The tension was ratcheting up with impossible speed, and he needed... he needed... "Fuuuuuck!" he cried out as Sherlock began rocking up into his mouth, and he knew in a sudden moment of clarity that Sherlock needed the same thing. He pulled back, lips red and swollen, and they gazed at one another, both breathing heavily. John couldn't form words.

Sherlock pleaded John with his eyes; he knew John needed it just as badly as he did. Ironic, really. Sherlock would have thought that after yesterday he wouldn't need to screw for another few days at least, yet… His chest heaved as he said two simple words, hoping his gorgeous soldier would relent. Would give him what he needed. 'John, please.'

Oh. Oh. Oh. John was on his hands and knees in a second, legs on either side of Sherlock's stomach, his chest heaving. He snatched the bottle from the blankets, upending it and pouring a great deal into his shaking hands. With his left, he reached back and began to stroke the slick languidly into Sherlock's erection, sliding it up and down, and with the other... John threw his head back, pushing three fingers into his hole, keening wildly. He began impaling himself on them, eyes trained on Sherlock's, bright and frantic. "Fuck," he said hoarsely, pleasure jolting through him. "Fuck, Sherlock... fuck fuck.. Are.. you up for this?" His wording made them both smile broadly, and John gasped as his fingers brushed the walls inside, making his entire body convulse. "You know what I mean..."

Sherlock watched entranced as John slowly began to prepare himself in front of Sherlock. 'Oh fuck, John, I'm more than up for this.' he rumbled, he couldn't take his eyes off his lover impaling himself with his own fingers. Preparing himself for Sherlock's cock. 'Shit, John, you're so fucking sexy.' He moaned, gently rocking his hips upward into John's slippery hand.

John was ready. He knew he was. His body yielded easily now, not like at first, when he was so tight and resistant, it hurt like hell every time. But... Sherlock was watching him with fascination, and John grinned, continuing to fuck himself on his fingers and stroke Sherlock. "Bloo...Bloody hell, Sherlock, this.. AHHH! Fuck! Fuck this feels good... Oooh I need your cock..."

'You need my cock?!' Sherlock asked incredulously, a desperate laugh escaping his mouth. 'Just look at my fucking cock, John, look at it. It needs you and your sexy arse right now. Don't make me wait.' He demanded furiously, licking his lips with anticipation.

John did look, and he moaned, a loud, animalistic sound. He slid his fingers out, and wriggled down, shuddering as the head of Sherlock's length nudged his entrance. He swallowed dryly. "Sh... Sherlock... same rules. No moving. Swear it." his voice was strained, and tremulous.

'Just fucking start.' Sherlock whined compliantly. John was too good to refuse. Sherlock would have agreed to almost anything just to have that muscular body ride his cock again.

"Hhhh... AHHHHH!" John did not suppress the scream as he lowered himself down, letting Sherlock's cock split him open, pushing past the tight muscle, slide along the narrow walls of his body and seat itself fully until John was lightly resting on his hip bones. He sat there for long moments, rocking and shivering, his strong arms tense and coiled. "Sherlockkkkk..." John whimpered, his hands planted on Sherlock's chest, his lips worried between teeth.

Sherlock wanted to move, he wanted to fucking thrust into the tight heat of John Watson, but he didn't. His cock twitched inside John. The sound of his lover moaning Sherlock's name while his body engulfed his cock entirely was almost too much for the poor man. It was so sexy, such a turn on, so good. 'Haaaaaaaaaaaaaa, Johnnn, shhh, say my name! Say it! Scream it! Come on!'

"SHERLOCK!" John complied without hesitation as he began to ride, is thighs burning as they pushed his body up, up, oh... fuck, until the head was barely slipping out of John's tight hole, and then SLAM! He screamed, his throat bobbing as his head fell backwards and stayed there. "SHERLOCK, ooooh fuuuuck! FUCK ME! Fucking... Sherlock Sherlock SHERLOCK!" John bounced on Sherlock's cock like a puppet on a string, trembling, his own erection smacking that flat, pale stomach with every thrust. His eyes popped open wide, and he sucked in a great lung full of air. He was too aroused. It felt too fucking good. He wasn't going to last. John jerked violently as that hard flesh collided with his prostate, and he gaped, the screech not quite reaching his vocal chords. Blinding, white hot ecstasy shot through him, and he dragged his eyes shut, focusing, ramming that spot again. And again. And again. Sherlock's name dripped from his lips, a prayer in the night.

Sherlock was close; he could feel it in his bones. He could not take his eyes from John, not even for a second. But really, how could Sherlock be bothered to blink when his lover was willing impaling himself hard and fast on his cock? 'F-ffuck, John, John, you're so sexy, so good, so fucking hot, so so so so so so shhhhhhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiitt ttttttt!' Sherlock was holding himself back, barely. He wanted to see John cum all over him; he couldn't afford to be distracted by his own orgasm, not yet. John kept riding him, rocking back and forth, his body convulsing with every thrust.

He was reduced to a series of pathetic pleas and nonsensical, desperate ramblings. John was a mess. He was thrashing, unable to fully process the onslaught of pleasure, and slowly, one hand found its way from Sherlock's magnificent body to the swollen flesh between his legs. John's lips trembled as he found Sherlock's gaze, and he held it, his eyes asking the question his mouth couldn't form. Is it all right? Can I cum now?

Sherlock let out a low gasping, moaning breath. He heard the unuttered question. John was asking his permission. _Fuck._ Sherlock stared intently at his beautiful, completely undone soldier and gave him a single nod. 'Come on, John, do it. Cum for me. Let me see you scream. Do it for me.' he commanded evenly, amazed that he could keep his voice sounding so calm. 'Cum all over me.'

John whimpered, and fucked himself faster, propelled by the fantastic calm in his lover's deep, rolling voice. Sherlock... fuck, he always did this to John! Always worked him into a frenzy, until John was screaming and begging and... yeeeesssss... John was pumping is cock, and his mouth was wide open as he shouted, Sherlock's name and a vile stream of profanities. The pleasure blasted through his nervous system, firing off in his brain, destroying every through process except the heady richness of his orgasm. Long streams of white ejaculate shot through the air, landing on Sherlock's chest and collarbone, and John heaved a dry sob.

Sherlock smiled in satisfaction as he felt John tighten around him, erupting with pleasure as he writhed in the throes of passion. His John was the most beautiful person on the face of the earth. He looked almost unnatural as he arched back and came in thick spurts. Surely it was impossible to look so perfect. John's cum was all over him now, his stomach, his chest, his neck, even a little on his face and hair. And it felt fantastic. 'Come on, John, keep going. I'm almost there.' Sherlock coaxed, breathing hard. He was almost there, yes. He could cum now.

John groaned, barely coherent, but he continued his maddening pace. It felt different now.. he was hyper sensitive, everywhere, and he jolted and juddered as Sherlock gently rolled his hips up, bucking that cock deep into his body. "Cum for me," he murmured, grinding down hard. "Come on, Sherlock.. Shoot inside me..."

He needed no more urging, he had been holding back for dear life and now there was finally no need to. With one final thrust, Sherlock came inside John, gasping and crying out in pleasure. The feeling of his lover as he clench and moved, reacting to the thick semen that spurted out, filling him up completely was almost too much for Sherlock. 'Shhhhhiiiiitttt... Joooohhhhnnnnn!'

John shouted once more, warmth filling him up, and he fell on the bed next to Sherlock, panting, his body wracked with shivers. "F...fuck..."

Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He loved this part, after everything had ended and John was lying next to him, still reverberating with the ebbing orgasm. There was something very exhilarating in knowing that he, Sherlock Holmes, had been the one to turn John into a howling mass of bliss. 'Thank you, John. That was very… relaxing. He sighed contentedly.

John blinked at him, and smiled gently. He sidled closer, skimming his fingers over that bruised body, and he met Sherlock's eyes with a firm squint. "Never again, Sherlock."

Sherlock snorted in amusement. 'I'll make you eat those words.'

John shook his head. "No. We can still... do the things we like to do, Sherlock. I'd never say that we couldn't. But this?" He gestured to the array of scrapes, bruises, and scratches on his lover's pale skin. "Not like this. I love you too much. I can't..." His voice cracked, and John took a moment to compose himself. "I can't look at you like this," he managed at last.

Sherlock cleared his throat; he could feel, to his complete mystification, tears trying to fight for their right to come out. He watched John, his eyebrows drawn together. 'I'm sorry, John.' Sherlock thought for a moment how he would feel if John were the one in his situation, his heart constricted. Sherlock pulled John close and rested his cheek against the soft blonde hair. 'Don't worry, it's not as bad as it looks, it's really not. I don't mind. I don't mind. Just... just don't look. I'll be back to normal in a few days, I promise.' he whispered, hopelessly trying to comfort his distraught lover.

"I know. I'm a doctor, remember?" John smiled into his neck, laughing a little. He took a deep breath, and blew it out again. Sherlock was okay. They were okay. He reached around, wrapping an arm around his shoulders protectively. "Have you eaten today?"

'Ummmm,' Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. He knew John got exasperated when he didn't eat, but... it had been a busy day. He hadn't the time nor appetite to eat earlier. He'd been so concentrated on making sure Mycroft backed down and after that he'd been exhausted. 'Well, in a way, I suppose. Somehow in some sort of vague way you could say that I have.'

"You've not had anything to eat, have you."

'No.' he said guiltily.

"Hungry?" John sounded sleepy. He struggled to stay awake, curled against his lover.

'No. You sleep.' Sherlock would get up later and quietly reheat some frozen waffles or whatever else they had in the freezer, he didn't want John to have to expend energy on something as inconsequential as food.

John rolled over, mumbling. He'd wake up in a bit and make Sherlock some dinner. Maybe knick something from Mrs. Hudson. He sighed, and was asleep before he even realized he'd closed his eyes.

Sherlock stroked John's hair lovingly as he slowly drifted off. The detective really did love this strange man. It was an enigma that he, Sherlock Holmes, could ever feel this way about someone else. He really didn't understand it, a fact that used to bother him in the past, but now he'd grown used to it and didn't really care. All that mattered was he loved John and John, oddly enough, loved him. Sherlock nestled up closer to John, pulling him as close as he could for a few moments before slowly detaching himself from John. He sat up and just watched the doctor sleeping peacefully next to him. Sherlock couldn't sleep, he'd gotten that out of the way earlier, but he could watch over John. That was something that he didn't often get to do these days. Sherlock leaned against the headboard, pulled his legs up to his chest and continued to stroke John's hair. Sherlock rested his head on his knees and smiled. John was his and the world knew it. Tomorrow or maybe the day after, the two of them would walk out of their flat and be bombarded with pesky reporters and cameras flashing in their faces, but right now... right now everything was perfect.


	5. Cock Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have a fight to see who can dominate the other, to see who can get the other to submit to their wishes first. Basically the final chapter is an extra PWP. Just a lot of kinky shagging.

There were times in his life that John Watson wished he still had a cane. This week, he'd wished for it thrice. The first time, he'd been cornered in an abandoned building by the river, frantically hissing at Sherlock on the other end of the mobile to get there, get there BLOODY NOW, because their prime suspect was around the corner looking for him, and John was out of bullets, and bloody hell, at least if he had his cane he could rap him smartly over the head and have done with it. The second time, John was trying to reach an absolutely foul concoction Sherlock had placed on the top of their kitchen cabinets, well out of John's reach, and if he'd still had his cane, he could have used it to just... pop it off the top shelf with a flick of the wrist. Instead, he'd had to drag a chair over, climb on top of it, stretch as far as his arms would take him, and snatch it just as Sherlock came in to find his good doctor completely vulnerable and precariously perched on the countertop. He'd taken full advantage. Now... John sighed, staring up the last four steps to the flat. He smiled tightly as Mrs. Hudson appeared above, just slipping out of their front door, the rent cheque clutched tightly in her hand. "Hoohoo!" she sang to him as she passed by, and he nodded, his jaw set. She paused, blinking up at him. "All right then, dear?" John gave her another curt nod, his fists working. "Yes, just... little twinge in my leg." He eyed the steps irritably, wondering why he had let Sherlock get rid of his cane in the first place. Mrs Hudson patted his shoulder. "Would you like one of my herbal soothers?" she asked him cheerily, and John gaped at her in horror. She shrugged. "Might help you pass the evening well with..." Her eyes drifted upstairs, and John groaned inwardly. She leaned in, whispering. "He's in one of his moods." He smiled at her, shaking his head, and she continued down the steps, muttering sweetly to herself. John dragged his feet up the last few stairs, pushing the door of the flat open, and collapsing on his chair. Sherlock. Where was Sherlock? He looked about, waiting, listening. Nothing. John grabbed at the newspaper, secretly glad of the silence. He was in pain, and tired from his day at the clinic. He didn't need a cranky consulting detective on his arse right now.

The door to 221B burst open and Sherlock thundered up the stairs. Today had been an entire waste of time. He'd been trudging about in the wet mud of some abandoned field looking for a particular piece of equipment he needed to tie in his experiment on rust. It had been raining for three days prior and today was the perfect day for his search. He'd been gone for hours and he hadn't found what he wanted. Sherlock was in a foul mood. He slammed open the door to his flat and looked wildly around. The detective hadn't had a decent case in four days. He needed some excitement. He needed a break in the monotony. He NEEDED a case. 'JOHN!' Sherlock bellowed, grumpily toeing his mud covered shoes off at the door and stomping in to the sitting room, his pants caked with dirt and mud and god only knows what else. His shirt was wet, the sleeves were rolled up and his arms were smeared with grime. Little spatters of brown littered his face and hair. Sherlock Holmes was a mess. 'I need some.' He hissed at his companion, who was sitting in his usual spot on the armchair. 'I need some NOW.'

John did not stifle the frustrated groan. He barely glanced up from the paper. "This feels familiar," he snorted, and winced as a dull ache rolled in his thigh. "Go get them yourself, if you're so clever," he said sharply, smirking at the newsprint. He'd become quite good at hiding Sherlock's secret stash. "Take a shower while you're at it."

Sherlock howled in rage. 'GOD! Today has been a COMPLETE _WASTE_ OF MY TIME.' He stormed into the kitchen and began pulling things out of the cabinets, looking for his very own cleaning solution. He'd come up with it a few years ago during an experiment involving soap, blood, and carrots. The experiment had been a disaster, but the cleaning solution worked very well when it came to getting mud and other messes off oneself. 'Where the HELL is it?!' He snarled, his face contorted in rage. Today was not a good day.

John felt his blood pressure rise in response to his flat mate's howling, and he exhaled, considering for just a moment actually telling Sherlock where the damned cigarettes were. It would at least shut him up for a few minutes... long enough for John to have some peace while he read his paper and tried to relax after a long day on unreasonable, paranoid, petulant patients. He rubbed his thumbs into his eyes. "What the hell are you going on about?" he asked wearily, shifting in his seat. "Why can't you just go take a shower, Sherlock? You'll feel better." He turned his attention back to the paper, mumbling, "I'll certainly feel better."

Sherlock ignored John, finally finding the large bottle and liberally pouring the contents along his arms. He then began to vigorously rub the dirt from his arms and hands before ducking his entire head under the sink and scrubbing before grabbing a hand towel and drying his hair vigorously. Once he'd finished that he turned his attention to John, still sitting in his chair, calmly reading the paper. 'John...' Sherlock advanced on his lover, standing behind him and stooping down to read the paper over his shoulder. 'The woman didn't die of natural causes, but they aren't going to say that, not for someone as prominent her. Rebekka Kindelburg stabbed her husband before shooting the back of her head out. Disgusting mess. Brains everywhere.' Sherlock smirked. He knew it annoyed John when he did this.

"Wh..." John clenched the newspaper, eyes narrow and chin jutting stubbornly as he half-turned to glare at the detective. "Do you mind?" he said testily. Fuck, he was in no mood for Sherlock's childishness tonight. "I'm tired, Sherlock. You had a bad day? I did, too. I'd like to have a half hour to sit and read the paper in peace before I make dinner. All right?" As Sherlock opened his mouth, John added, "And I don't need a commentary."

Sherlock glared. 'Take a shower with me.' And when he saw the look of exasperation on his lover's face he quickly added,' since you won't give me some.'

"A shower," John repeated. He hesitated, the refusal dying on his lips. He wanted to read his paper. He wanted to shower with Sherlock. He wanted to relax in his chair. He wanted to get sucked off. John wavered, the idea worming its way into his skull, cavorting around, alluring and... John glanced at his lover, and recoiled. "You're filthy."

'Yes, hence the shower.' Sherlock stated, shaking his head at the simple-mindedness of John's brain. 'Take one with me.' He ran a hand through his dripping hair and took a few steps away from his doctor before turning around and looking back at him. 'What's wrong?' He asked, his brow furrowed. John was just sitting in his chair staring at Sherlock with a slightly incredulous, slightly aggravated look on his face. John wanted to read his paper in peace, Sherlock knew that, but Sherlock really didn't care what John wanted. HE was bored.

John turned back to reading. "Go on. I'll take mine later." The lure of fifteen minutes of peace and quiet was too much. John smiled. He knew Sherlock was indignant at his refusal, but... really, when did John ever get the flat to himself for a little quiet time? Fifteen minutes to himself was precious. He stifled a yawn, leaning back in his chair. "I'm just tired, Sherlock, and you're positively disgusting, and my leg hurts. So go on, then."

Sherlock folded his arms and gazed evenly at John. 'What have you done to your leg this time?' He asked in a less than interested voice. It was probably just twinging again, but Sherlock felt he ought to ask. Just in case. After all, John was constantly admonishing him for not being more "in tune" with his human side.

John snorted, lifting the paper so that he did not have to see that haughty face out of the corner of his eye. "Nice of you to remember, Sherlock. I pulled my muscle over the weekend. The case? Good to know you notice these things about me." Sherlock hadn't noticed. John knew he hadn't. If he had, John was fairly sure he wouldn't have fucked him quite so roughly the night before. John pushed that thought aside. He didn't want to get aroused right now. Not with Sherlock demanding his very naked presence in the shower... John's cheeks colored a bit.

Sherlock felt a pang of guilt. He hadn't noticed. Why hadn't he noticed? Why hadn't John said anything? He'd been rougher than usual last time they'd... 'Oh,' he cleared his throat and glanced down at his hands. Damn it all, but he still wanted John in the shower with him. 'I cleaned my hands, arms, face, and neck off.' Sherlock proffered them for John to see. 'I'm not that filthy... and how the hell are we supposed to have any fun if you get your leg hurt?' he added as an afterthought. Really, John needed to speak up more often. It was damn irresponsible of him.

John could not help the grin. It spread on his face, wide and mischievous, and he deliberately stared, unseeing, at the newspaper article in front of him. "Well," he mused quietly, "I suppose you'll just have to hold it stationary for me." Brilliant. He was flirting with Sherlock. He rolled his eyes at himself, shaking his head. Damned needy body... It craved the tall dark man. Craved him like a drug.

Sherlock's face brightened at that prospect. Perhaps he was winning John over after all. The prospect of hot shower sex always cheered the detective up on his slow days. 'Well...' he said thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on an elbow, 'I suppose that would work.' Fuck. Sherlock wanted John. Now.

"It's worked before," John muttered, and let his eyes flicker up just once, just for a moment, to Sherlock's. He shivered at the naked desire there. John rattled his paper as he turned the page, making a great show of how very interested he was in the society column.

Sherlock was not fooled by John's sudden interest in the paper. He knew all too well that John was far more eager for a quick fuck than he was to find out what celebrity was shagging the other. 'Or maybe I'll just have to restrain it.' He purred, his lidded eyes filled with blatant desire. 'With those cuffs.' John's fingers twitched, Sherlock smiled. 'And the straps.'

Damn it. Fucking damn it all. John bit his lip hard to prevent the low moan that threatened to come pouring out of him, but it was a losing battle, and he knew it. He lowered the paper just a bit, just enough to look over the edge with bright, piercing eyes into Sherlock's hungry gaze. "Oh," he breathed, one corner of his mouth quirking up. "Yes, yes, that could do quite nicely, Sherlock." He meant it. Relaxation was one thing... being trussed up and fucked was another. That was... yes, quite nice indeed.

Sherlock was aroused. His trousers were starting to feel a little too tight and his heartbeat was quickening. 'That's what I thought,' he swallowed thickly, licking his lips. The image of John tied up, naked, and begging... _oh hell..._ 'I've been itching to try them out.'

"Me too," John admitted softly. He held very still, listening to his own heartbeat, feeling the initial tingling of his body's response to the conversation. He took a deep breath. "Anytime you think you have the muscle to wrassle me down," he said at last, cheerily, and raised the paper once more. After all, just because he fucking loved the idea didn't mean he had to make it easy. Sherlock was a demanding, childish, spoiled sod, and John liked to make him work for what he wanted. It was good for him. "I intend to put up a fight."

Sherlock frowned. _Hang on, that wasn't how it was supposed to go_. John loved being tied up, being fucked, being hurt. This wasn't right at all. _Oh._ Realization dawned on Sherlock, his eyes widened slightly. Oooh, John had initiated a game, whether he knew it or not. Fuck, Sherlock loved a good game. 'Oh,' he said in a low, sultry voice, 'I think I can manage.' Yes, Sherlock was sure he could take John on quite easily.

John began to chuckle, his eyes amused and dancing. He tilted his head at Sherlock. "Let's not forget who won the last wrestling match, shall we?" Hell yes, he had. He'd had Sherlock on the ground on his knees, demanding that John let him up. That image stuck in John's head, and his eyes glazed a moment.

That memory still stung the detective. Oh yes, he and John had decided to wrestle for "the fun of it", Sherlock had secretly been hoping it could lead to some hot foreplay - he'd been right, but not in the way that he'd expected - and had challenged John to a match. 'Your arm strength may be superior, but let's see who wins in a battle of wills and wit.' He sniffed, his nose in the air. Who said anything about fighting? Sherlock may not be able to win with brute force, but Sherlock almost never used brute force.

John shrugged, his confidence rising. Now this was the sort of game he liked to play. The sort he could win. "This won't be wills and wits, Sherlock," he reminded him blithely. "If you intend to get these legs in those restraints, you're going to have to wrestle me down and get them in by force." John glanced up from the column again, smiling, flashing white teeth at his lover. "Good luck."

Sherlock snorted. 'I don't need luck. I have my brain.' He stated, tightening the grip on his arms, narrowing his eyes. John was confident that he could win. This could prove to be difficult, but then Sherlock didn't plan on playing by the rules. He never did.

John shook his head, laughing again. He felt a rush of delight and satisfaction at Sherlock's bristle. "Your brain is not going to get me trussed up on the bed," he said, and crossed his legs. Odd. His thigh didn't ache as much anymore. Bloody psycho-semantic aches and pains... He lifted his eyebrows, pursing his lips. "I am stronger than you," he reminded Sherlock, and chuckled at the indigent look on his lover's sculpted face.

'Every single weak spot of yours is catalogued and numbered by rank of most effective to least.' Sherlock said defensively. He wasn't going to lose. He couldn't lose. After all, he had the one weakness that was always John's undoing in his corner. He had himself, Sherlock Holmes. And no matter how much it baffled him that his army doctor found him attractive, loved him, he was not above using that one weakness.

John rolled his eyes. Now this should be good. "All right then," he replied, playing along. Oh, yes, the great Sherlock Holmes, knew everything about everyone except himself. And fuck, Sherlock was not the only one with powers of observation. John had observed the shit out of his flat mate. He did not look up at him, but continued pretending to read. "What is my greatest weakness, then?" he asked, sounding terribly bored. If he were honest, though, a small part of him was interested in the answer. If anyone knew his weak spots, it was Sherlock.

Sherlock sneered, running a hand through his hair. As if he would tell John. As if he would say something that sounded so incredibly cheesy and pathetic out loud. Like he'd say "I'm your weak spot" to John. Right. When muffins grew wings and flew into the air to create a legion of fellow mutant-muffins. 'That,' he said coolly, 'would be giving up valuable information. I'm not that stupid.' Maybe John didn't realise the control Sherlock had over him, Sherlock wouldn't be surprised to hear that, but Sherlock knew… He was John's greatest weakness, just as John was his.

John turned his head for the first time in the conversation, fixing his lover with a steely, knowing stare. His eyes were glittering, and he felt slightly drunk with power. This was new. He liked it. "I know you aren't. You're brilliant. Brilliant enough to know that I WILL get the information from you. You can either tell me now, or you can scream it at the top of your lungs as I fuck your arse mercilessly with the business end of my pistol." Oh. There it was. And John felt a shudder pass through him as he said it. He'd do it. He would.

Sherlock laughed harshly. 'You couldn't make me do that, you couldn't make me do anything I didn't want to and...' he stopped his tirade suddenly as the full meaning of what John had just said hit him. _His pistol._ Fuck Sherlock with the barrel of his... ohhhh fuck. Yes, Sherlock was definitely hard now. 'With...' he licked his lips hungrily, 'your gun? Promise?' Oh god. Sherlock wanted very badly to be fucked with John's gun. He'd never even considered that a possibility before now, but as soon as John uttered the words it all made sense. It sounded like a perfectly natural past time. A perfectly normal use for that thick, cold gun. Oh FUCK. Sherlock really was aroused.

John grinned up at him, unsure why he was still in the chair, still holding a newspaper, when the most beautiful man in the world trembled but a few feet away, his chest rising and falling, his mouth open, his eyes focused and bright. John swallowed thickly. The game. Right. "Sherlock, when you're on your back with your legs spread, you'd bloody tell me anything I asked if it meant I would keep fucking you." John licked his lips, the exaltation rising in his blood. He leaned towards him a bit, lowering his voice to a sultry drawl. "You are.. Such. A. Cock. Whore."

John's words went straight to Sherlock's crotch as they always did when he spoke like that, when he talked dirty. Ohhhhhh, Sherlock wanted to get fucked very badly now. He had planned on a quick shag in the shower, making John scream and writhe as he pounded into him into the wall, but this. Well, this sounded like so much more fun. 'Fuck.' He muttered quietly, his mind racing. The detective turned away from John, his head still filled with the images of being fucked with a gun, with John's voice. _A cock whore._ Sherlock did not know why that turned him on so damn much. 'Well, we'll just have to see.' He replied, his fingers twitching. Damn. His cock was beginning to hurt. He'd need to release it soon.

Oh, that did it. John fought the urge to moan, to palm his growing erection, to grab Sherlock and fuck him over the back of the chair. Oooh. That was... a highly pleasant thought. John dwelled there for a few moments before realizing that Sherlock wasn't speaking... wasn't looking at him. He blinked, wondering suddenly if he'd said too much. He hastened to make amends, because hell, if Sherlock was a cock whore, then what the fuck did that make John? He lost count how many times he'd spread for Sherlock. He would let him fuck him any time of day, any day of the week, pretty much anywhere. If Sherlock expressed a desire to shag John out on the street in the middle of the day with the world and all watching... well, John may put up a fight, but he knew deep inside his heart, he would give in. He'd do it. He'd let Sherlock take him any way he wanted... because John fucking loved it. He turned pink as he rushed, "Not that I mind... I am the same." Sherlock knew that already.

Sherlock was deep in thought, trying to figure out how best to turn this to his advantage, how he could get fucked but still win. He completely ignored John's hasty, apologetic reply, furrowing his brow and pondering for a moment before he had it. Oh yes, he could win. Sherlock turned around, his arms dangling at his sides, showing off his raging erection beneath the mud-stained trousers. 'Because you know,' he said, continuing his earlier train of thought, 'the only way I'll tell you anything is if you're fucking my brains out.' He smiled ferly and advanced on John, 'Because yes.' Sherlock's eyes flashed and he brushed a finger against his crotch, sighing a little, 'I. Am. A. Cock. Whore.' The detective stopped right before John's chair and leaned down, whispering silkily in John's ear. 'Your cock whore.' Sherlock straightened up and looked down in satisfaction at his lover. Oh yes, this was going to be so much fun.

"Fuck." The word slipped out in a raspy breath before John could stop it, and he groaned, raising his eyes briefly to his lover's. "Shit. Damn you," he hissed, but smiled a little just the same. Sherlock was good at the game. He'd give him that much. John shook his head, sighing. "Now I want it. Here. In the sitting room." He tried to turn his face back to the paper, but Sherlock's proximity was distracting.

'You'd like this here,' Sherlock waved about, 'in the sitting room?' His jaw twitched. John wasn't paying attention to him. Very well. 'Me?' He continued, thumbing the hook of his trousers. 'My legs spread wide, my cock hard and glistening.' He saw John stiffen and smiled, 'writhing and moaning and... begging.' Sherlock moaned a little and palmed his cock. Fuck. He wanted John.

John's eyes darted to the tented trousers at eye level, and he took a long, shaky breath. He tried to shut his mouth, tried not to reply, but... His body had its own ideas, and Sherlock's cock, bulging beneath linen and cotton, made his skin burn all over. "Yes, I'd bloody well like that. I always want that. Always," he whispered hoarsely, fingers tightening on his paper. He looked up into

Sherlock's cool eyes, his breath hitching. John was a very honest fellow. This was why Sherlock usually won the games. At some point, John just could not help spilling his guts. "I don't care if you're getting your arse rammed, or if you're letting me ride your cock, I don't care, as long as we are shagging." He was ready. Fuck, he needed a shag. Only the small voice in his head that demanded a strong fight prevented him from grabbing Sherlock right then and there, and fucking him over the coffee table.

Sherlock's fingers twitched. He felt the same as John, really. But he wasn't going to admit that. That was why Sherlock won, that was why Sherlock was John's greatest weakness. John simply could not resist the sly consulting detective, not for very long at any rate. Sherlock licked his lips. John had gone back to reading the bloody society column. 'Hnnnnnn,' he groaned, tracing his index finger roughly against his erection, half tempted to strip and sit on John's lap. Make the older man take him right then and there. But he wouldn't. That wouldn't be as fun as making John submit to him completely. 'Don't you want to tell me how bad I've been?' Sherlock asked, cocking his head. 'Don't you want to punish me? Make me tell you alllll of my dirty,' Sherlock pulled one corner of his shirt from where it sat firmly tucked in his trousers, 'little,' he pulled the other end out, 'secrets?' John was going to be his. One way or another.

John snorted then, refusing to acknowledge the desperate shock of arousal that blasted through him at the moans ripping from Sherlock's throat, the fucking beautiful sight of pale fingers tracing a massive, cloth-covered erection, the sliver of pale flesh that appeared from beneath his shirt. He worked to calm his racing heart, turning back to the paper. They were, thankfully, not featured in today's edition. "You don't have secrets from me, Sherlock. I know them all." His voice was shaky.

Sherlock sighed and looked out the window. 'Oh yes, all of them... like... how when you were working yesterday I got out that masturbator of yours and... well...' Sherlock let out another sigh. 'And two days ago when I... but well, you probably know all that. I guess I'll just have to go to my room and keep myself company. Maybe take that long, hot shower you suggested earlier.' Sherlock stood up languidly and started unbuttoning his shirt, walking out into the hall. 'I hope you enjoy your paper, John, I'm going to go fuck myself now.' Sherlock called over his shoulder, throwing his shirt on the floor and working on his trousers.

John's face turned crimson in a matter of seconds. He was on his feet and following before he had even registered standing, and he cursed himself silently. Fuck, Sherlock was right. He knew every weakness, knew how to exploit John quite thoroughly. And John couldn't bring himself to care. He raced after the tall man, kicking his own trousers off as he ran, yanking his jumper over his head, panting. "F..Fuck, wait for me!" he shouted after him, snarling as Sherlock shut the door to the loo. John could swear he heard a sadistic chuckle within. He slid in his socks in the hallway, and reached for the door knob. He jangled it. It was locked. "Damn it," he growled, and knocked. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock leaned against the door, the bottle of lube in his hands. 'I thought you were busy.' He called to John, squirting some on his fingers and rubbing them together before carefully thrusting one in his arse and letting out a little gasp, arching his back. 'Shit! Ah!' He slid down until he was resting on his heels, head bowed forward as he added another wet finger and began to fuck himself in earnest. 'Hnnn! Oh fuuuuuuccccccck!' He hissed, his knees hitting the ground. 'Fuck, sh... shower...' If Sherlock was a little more vocal than usual, well that might be because he was bored, he needed some fun. John was fun. But if John wanted to play this the hard way then Sherlock would comply. After all, Sherlock loved his games.

John stared at the closed door, his chest beginning to rise and fall rapidly. Sh..Sherlock was fucking himself. John knew it, knew that the moans and the gasps on the other side were not fake, not for his benefit. He'd heard Sherlock fake shagging noises before. This was not fake. The groans were all too real, and on the other side of the plywood bathroom door, Sherlock Holmes was shoving his fingers in his arse. John whimpered, pressing himself flush against the door, fingers clawing at the chipping white paint. "Please," he whispered, knowing Sherlock could hear him. His groin thrust gently against the cool, flat surface, and he swallowed dryly. "Fuck.. open up, Sherlock, please... Damn you. Don't you DARE do this without me!"

Sherlock smiled a little as he heard John's pleas. He shoved a third finger in and cried out, closing his eyes. 'FUCK! OH FUuuccccccckkkkK!' Gasping for breath he shifted around until his back was on the floor, his head right near the crack of the door so John could hear him even better. 'Feeeellllsss so g... gooddd... fuckkkk!' He would let John in, yes, but this... Sherlock was rock hard and ready for action, his hole was already eating up his three fingers, begging for something more. 'I think tha.. that damn massager is in h... fuck... sommeeewhere...'

"NO!" John pounded on the door with his fist, just once, his eyes huge and wild. FUCK. FUCK NO. He'd never seen Sherlock fuck himself with that damned vibrator, and he was NOT going to miss it! He'd wanked too many times to that fantasy to miss it now. He stepped back, eyes darting, wondering if he broke down the door, if that would be the last straw for Mrs. Hudson. He couldn't very well explain that he'd smashed in the door to the loo because Sherlock was fucking himself and John wanted to watch. He grabbed at his hair in frustration, knocking loudly once more. "SHERLOCK! Open the FUCKING door! Oh shit, please open the door!" John moaned, thunking his forehead against it, his hand beginning to palm his erection under his knickers. "Please..."

Sherlock removed his fingers and got shakily to his feet, unlatching the door and opening it slowly. He smirked as he saw John's frustrated visage. 'See, I told you I knew your weak points.' He drawled, leaning up against the frame.

"Shut the fuck up." John shoved inside, and slammed the door behind him with his foot. He grabbed a handful of dark hair, and yanked it back, crushing his mouth to Sherlock's, snarling and ripping at him with his teeth. "You fucking bastard," he hissed, and his left hand roamed Sherlock's naked body freely, pinching nipples, cupping testicles, squeezing his buttocks and grinding their erections.

Sherlock gasped against John's harsh kiss, at his rough hands. Oh god, he loved this part. This was so much better than blowing something up. He pushed into John's cock, pressing a leg between John's and pushing up. 'Johnnn,' he murmured, biting the sensitive spot right below John's ear, arching into his lover's demanding touches. 'I need to get fucked by something.' He rolled an earlobe between his teeth, sucking at it. His nails making marks down John's back, cupping his buttocks, running down his legs. 'I need it noowwwww...'

John didn't answer. He tended to shut down when Sherlock sucked his ear, bit his neck. He was dead to the rest of the world, alive only for Sherlock. He fucking LIVED for this shit. He managed a grunt, nodding and using his considerable strength to push Sherlock down, down to the floor, on his knees. John tossed his head, still unable to form words, his temples pounding with blood. He pointed, and Sherlock got the idea. He flipped onto his hands and knees, arse wiggling at John, and the doctor chewed his lip, an overpowering urge to just ram his aching cock in that hole washing over him. But he held back, despite the fact that Sherlock was stretched, despite the fact that he was ready... John moaned loudly. His fingers quested in the cabinet by the sink, finding at last what he sought. They closed around the round, nubbed shaft of the vibrator. John shivered. He twisted the cap... please, please, please say it had good batteries... and the thing came to life, juddering and buzzing loudly in his hand.

Sherlock heard the tell-tale buzzing and grinned, arching his back inward, thrusting his arse out, letting out a moan. 'Giiive it tooo meeee, Johnnnnnn!' He trailed out his words, twitching his backside in the air. He could feel John behind him staring down. Sherlock knew John liked to look first. He liked to see his detective in this submissive state. Turning his head he gave John a slightly pouty expression, his lower lip protruding. 'Aren't you going to fuck me, John? Do I have to do it myself?'

"No..." John found his voice. It sounded foreign... low, and musical, and husky. He held the vibrator up, examining it. It was not very thick... not as thick as his cock anyway, but it had lovely ridges, designed to make the strongest man dissolve into a whimpering mess. Its head was bulbous, and it curved... to hit the prostate. John was fascinated. He knelt slowly behind his lover, switching the vibration to a low hum, and he teased the edge of Sherlock's hole with it, playfully. Oh yes. Let the games begin.

Sherlock tossed his head, feeling the tip of the vibrator teasing him, lightly touching his entrance. He moved against it ever so slightly, hissing loudly. He knew John was playing with him, but it was so much more interesting this way. 'Ohhh, John, that feels so good. I could cum just from that.' Moving his arm so that it was lying flat against the tile, Sherlock lifted his hand and began to trace lines around his aching cock. 'Oh yesss, John! He could feel John trembling behind him. His poor doctor was so turned on right now, so very turned on. Sherlock just had to keep his cool and... John pressed it in a little further and Sherlock whined a little. Oh fuck, that felt so good.

John grinned wickedly as he slid the tip, oh, yes, just the very tip of the humming shaft into Sherlock's arse. He watched with calculating, hungry eyes as his lover trembled, his hand searching for his cock, and John slowly raised the vibration level. Just a tad. Just enough to make Sherlock groan loudly, and spread his legs wider. Fuck, he was such a little slut... John caught his breath, letting his hips cant forward to thrust gently against Sherlock's thigh. Oh... oh yesss that felt good... He panted, beginning to rotate the vibrator, letting Sherlock feel the ridges tickling his pucker.

Sherlock twitched, his mouth opening and closing, his arse moving against the vibrator. John was slowly beginning to rock against his thigh and, oh fuck. Sherlock squeezed his cock a little harder, pumping it heavily, dragging his nails across the veins. He let out little gasps of pleasure as John carefully nudged the massager a little farther in, letting Sherlock become accustomed to it, leaving it in just long enough for Sherlock to think that was how far it was going to stay, before pulling it back out again. Sherlock whined, and tossed his head. John was a fucking tease.

"That's right," John breathed, still thrusting his cock against that slender leg, and he dragged one hand down the length of Sherlock's smooth back, marveling at the stark, raw beauty of it. Sherlock was shaking, stroking himself desperately, and John felt a shudder run through his short, solid frame. This felt... fucking amazing. Sherlock looked fucking amazing. He leaned forward... bit his shoulder hard. "That's right," he hissed again, loving Sherlock's gasp of shock. "Whine for me." John pushed the toy in again, deep, and he flicked the lid, raising the vibration level almost all the way. He kept it in this time, moving it about, smiling broadly as Sherlock seemed to melt before his eyes. The tall man was making the most lovely mewling noises. John closed his eyes, sighing. "Yes, Sherlock... yessss..." He began to fuck him in earnest.

Sherlock's mouth gaped open, he was making loud, unearthly noises as John fucked him with that wicked masturbator. His hand stopped moving against his cock and fell to the floor, helping keep him steady as his whole body rocked against the vibrating object being shoved in his arse. 'Fuck! Ah! HnnnAahhh! Oh gooddddddd!' He pushed harder against it, the buzzing making his mind going blank. This was so much better than yesterday, so much better than two days ago. John was fucking him hard, with his different vantage point he could reach so many different spots, so many spots that made Sherlock want to scream. Biting his lip he leaned his head into his arms, thrusting his arse even higher into the air, even harder into the vibrator. 'Shiiiitttttttt!'

John was enjoying this thoroughly. Too thoroughly. His plan to reduce Sherlock to mush and then lord it over him was slowly turning into something very different. His body was tingling, his hair standing straight up, his skin prickling as Sherlock rocked back and forth, fucking himself on the vibrating shaft. John didn't have to do anything... Sherlock did all the work, his thighs flexing as they rammed that gorgeous, pale arse back and forth, over and over and over and.. John was stroking. He blinked down at himself, surprised, but a primal rush of delight and ecstasy shot through him, and he let his head fall back, moaning and continuing his masturbation, eyes trained on Sherlock as he shoved the vibrator in and out, deep, deeper, oh... FUCK... John barely had the dexterity to turn it on its highest setting. With one hand wrapped around his own shaft, and the other fucking Sherlock, John began to let himself moan and cry out.

Sherlock had the presence of mind to glance at John and his heart nearly stopped. _Oh fuck._ He groaned and heaved himself up a little, moving to John, pushing the soldier's hands away and falling down on his hard cock with a fury, nipping, licking, sucking, moaning. John threw his head back and Sherlock drank him down until John was fully seated in his mouth. Continuing to rock back against the vibrator, Sherlock began to suck John off, biting the engorged head, pressing his tongue inside the slit, licking up the precum. With one of his hands he played with John's balls, tugging them, caressing them. Fuck. He was so close. The overwhelming strength of the pulsating object in his arse was too much, so strong. Sherlock lifted his head and looked into John's eyes, licking his lips. 'Fuck my mouth hard, go on. Cum down my throat. Now.' He purred, swallowing his lover's cock whole once more.

John's eyes narrowed as he writhed, his entire body undulating and bucking with the rhythm of Sherlock's mouth. Oh. Well played. He allowed himself a single, long, wrenching cry, and then was shoving Sherlock's head off of his lap, his lips curled and feral. "No you don't," he snarled, pushing that dark, curly head down to the floor once more. Sherlock's cheek was pressed flat against the tiles, and John kept it there, using his body weight to hold him immobile. Sherlock whimpered, and John followed suit as he focused solely, completely, on ravaging his arse. His hands moved swiftly, his fingers pressing into the flesh on the back of Sherlock's neck, and John began to groan in time with the thrusts. He was really fucking plowing him now, and Sherlock was helpless against it. The vibrator sang, loud and pulsing in their ears as it took him apart, piece by piece

Sherlock's eyes rolled back and he didn't even have enough control to close his mouth, it hung open, saliva dripping onto the floor. He pushed against John, wanting more. 'Johnnn... want you... your cockk, too.' He whimpered, licking his lips and shaking. 'Pleaseeeee. Give it to me. Both. I need yourr cock... fucking.. cock.. whore... please' He gasped.

John grinned from ear to ear. Fuck yes. That was what he was waiting for. He continued to split him open, hard, fuck... fuck he was rough on Sherlock sometimes... and he leaned down, licking the shell of his ear languidly. "You want my cock?" he asked, oh, so sweetly.

'Oh yesss.' Sherlock shifted, suddenly pushing up while John was distracted. 'I want your cock.' He pushed John onto the tile floor and tossed his head, straddling his lover and grasping his wrists. The vibrator still shoved up his arse, his cock twitching and angry, Sherlock looked down at John and grinned. He leaned forward and bit his soldier's lower lip, his chin, his neck. 'I love... yo... ur cock.'

John cursed loudly, squirming and shouting as his lover smirked above him. "DAMN IT! Fuck! Get off!" He struggled, legs kicking, then stilled quite suddenly. He peered up at Sherlock, eyes wide, and his lip began to tremble. A low blush rose in his cheeks, and John looked away, blinking rapidly.

Sherlock still held onto John's wrists with one hand while the other moved down to his arse and began stretching again, thrusting two fingers right in with the toy. He gasped and moaned. 'Your cock is the... best, John.' Sherlock's breathing was erratic. He knew this was a first for the both of them. John would either hate it or love it, but right now Sherlock didn't fucking care. With two fingers still in his arse, Sherlock began to lower himself down on John's cock, throwing his head back and screaming out a string of profanities.

John was angry. John was furious. John... couldn't remember his own name. He arched up, a shrill howl erupting from his throat as his cock was engulfed in wet heat, surrounded by struggling fingers and a very active, very tremulous, very electric vibrator that hummed and teased him, pressed all together in Sherlock's perfect, hot, wonderful arse. It was like lightning, searing his nerves, settling in his core, and John forgot to be upset that he lost. He forgot to be angry that Sherlock got the upper hand. He forgot everything but the burning of ice blue eyes, a bruising hand on his hip, the noises that Sherlock made, and the madness of being ridden. John held his breath. Fuck. Fuck this. He wasn't going to even try to hold back. He met that gaze and spat out, "I'm cumming, you fucking cock whore..." And then he was, screeching his climax, the power of it totally and completely without precedent. It tore him, ripped his soul open, left him bare and quivering and lifeless on the bathroom floor as Sherlock clenched above him, watching him lose himself in the throes of sensual ecstasy. John reached up with both hands, and savagely twisted both his nipples, grinning as Sherlock keened. Fuck. His lover liked to be hurt a little.

Oh fuck. John and the vibrator were too much, too much for Sherlock. He was holding on, but barely. This was all thanks to his complete and utter control, his steeled mind. Sherlock could accomplish anything if he set his mind to it, and this... John yanked on his nipples and it sent bursts of pain to Sherlock's mind. Fuck. He loved the pain. Sherlock pushed a hand on John's chest, lifting himself up, a trembling hand grabbing the toy and pulling it out, whining as he did so. It dripped with cum and buzzed around in his hand for a moment before he tossed it aside and straddled John's upper chest, looking down at his lover with a cold glint in his eyes. 'Suck me off.' He jutted his chin out, keeping himself steady, the cum oozing from his hole, dribbling down his legs and onto John 'Now. We'll see who the real cock whore is.'

The haze was lifting, and John stared up at him in shock. "Wh..." He only got a syllable out before Sherlock was pushing the head of his wet dick against John's mouth, and John snarled again, baring his teeth. He growled at Sherlock, refusing to open his mouth, his grey eyes sparking. "Make me." His expression said as clear as day what he would not voice aloud.

Sherlock grabbed a tuft of his hair and pulled him up, ignoring the yelp of pain, crushing his lips against John's. 'You're going to regret that.' He whispered against John's mouth, shoving him back down onto the floor. Looking about he saw his hairbrush on the sink, the metal one he'd just bought, the one that John had fucked himself on not so long ago. That would do nicely. Sherlock stood up, keeping one foot firmly on John's chest; he yanked the brush up and sat back down again. 'Open your mouth. Now.' He slapped John's thigh sharply with the flat end of his brush.

"No." John meant it to sound hard, and steely, but the sting from the brush shot straight to his cock again, and it ended up coming out as a low moan. He flushed deeply, trying in vain to buck Sherlock off of him. He had no idea why he was fighting so hard... He loved sucking that dick. But... but the fucking ARROGANCE of the sod! John's eyes focused on the erect, beautiful, jutting cock in front of his face, and he felt a rush of anger as his mouth began to salivate. Damned rebellious body...

Sherlock smirked and he trailed the brush up John's muscular body. 'No?' He pressed the brush against John's lips, rotating it around before patting his cheek with it. Then his eyes flashed and he lifted the brush up, bringing it down with a smack on John's cheek. He did not use enough force to cause his lover any real damage, no, Sherlock did not want to hurt John. He just wanted to teach his insolent soldier a lesson. 'Open your mouth, whore.' He traced the brush along John's jawline and lifted his head a little.

John tried to grate out another refusal, but his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. His heart was racing, and he could feel the blood rushing back into his cock. He felt dizzy, and dreamlike. His cheek was red, and burning. His other cheek felt bereft. He could not speak, but his jaw set, and his teeth ground together as he shook his head, ever so slightly. His eyes never left Sherlock's.

Sherlock snarled a little, slapping the brush against John's neglected cheek with some force. Moving quickly, he pulled his arm back and brought the brush down hard against John's ribs, then against his other thigh, his abdomen, each time making a loud snap against his tanned skin. Sherlock grabbed John's face with his other hand and pulled him into another furious kiss, biting John's lips, owning his mouth. 'Suck me off, John, like a good little slut.' He shoved John's head back down against the tile and thrust his cock into John's face. This was so much fun.

John was mumbling. He was whimpering and nearly sobbing as the words fell from his lips, and his skin burned with shame from head to toe. His feet were tense on the floor, his fingers grappling at the tiles, his chest twitching. The words were barely audible... but he couldn't speak louder, he couldn't say those words out loud.

'What was that, John? I didn't hear you.' Sherlock traced a finger lovingly down John's red cheek. 'Are you going to suck it?'

John closed his mouth, and turned his face away. Fuck. Fuck. A single tear collected at the corner of his eye, and he refused to let it fall. His lips still formed the inaudible words, falling from his mouth like water, quiet, but steady and repeating.

'LOUDER!' Sherlock shouted, slamming the brush down on his lover's abdomen.

"NOT THE BRUSH!" John screamed, unable to hold it back any longer. Sherlock froze above him, and a horrible, loud sob ripped from his throat. John thrashed on the floor, crying out in utter humiliation and desperate arousal. "Hit me, FUCK! FUCK YES! Hit me, but not with that FUCKING BRUSH!" His eyes blazed, and his lips were torn and he shouted up at him, bucking up. John threw himself back on the tile, writhing, moaning. "Not the brush... hit me, hurt me, please, please..."

'Why?' Sherlock cocked his head and flipped the brush in his hands. 'Why should I do what you want? Why, John, when you're not complying with a simple request of mine?' He stared down at his lover, a look of curiosity on his long features. 'Don't you like my brush? Wasn't this the one you. Fucked. Yourself. With?' Sherlock sat down on John and stroked his buttocks with the cool metal of the brush. 'This is the one, isn't it? And it felt so good, didn't it?' Sherlock's eyes glittered wickedly. 'So tell me, John, why?'

John did not answer. He only stared.. stared with the look of a starving man... at the long, glistening, hard flesh between his lover's legs. He licked his lips, moaning, and began to writhe again, whimpering. "P..Please... hit my face..." he begged, so quietly that Sherlock had to strain to hear him. His eyes were still focused on that jutting cock, and John began to pant, knocking his head back against the floor in frustration. "Please. Please. Please. Please..."

Sherlock smirked, 'what was that, my little tramp? You wanted me to what?' He asked innocently, dropping the brush and bringing his hands to John's face, tracing a long finger down one of John's cheeks, pressing into his lips for a second. 'I didn't hear you.'

John muttered.

_Oh_ , Sherlock saw what John was doing. He was trying to anger him into giving his lover what he wanted. What a sly little devil. Sherlock continued to stroke John's cheek with maddening gentility, brushing his thumb across his soldier's nose. There was an easy way out, of course. Sherlock could just snatch the vibrator up and lock himself in his bedroom, but Sherlock didn't like easy. Easy was boring. 'Did you want me to do something, John?'

John felt the tears stinging both his eyes now, and he turned those filling eyes to the detective, trying desperately to still the quivering of his lip. Fuck. FUCK. Why the HELL did he need this so badly? The sting of the earlier slaps had gone, and his nostrils flared, his chin lifted, his body shuddered. He nodded, just once, but it was enough of a concession to make the salt water spill over, running down each side of his face, down to the floor below.

'Good boy, now... what did you want?' Sherlock asked, raising his hand up, 'did you want me to slap you like this?' Sherlock's hand landed down on John's cheek with a resounding whack. 'Or... like this?' Sherlock backhanded his lover's other cheek, this time with so much force that John's head was knocked to the other side. 'Now... why don't you tell me which one you like better, Johnnn.'

John sobbed. He couldn't help it. He shook his head vigorously... No, no, no, no. Sherlock... he didn't understand. He lay beneath him, cock dripping and throbbing again, cheeks bright red and smarting, and John was desperate. He loved Sherlock's hands... loved their gentle touch... loved the pain they could cause... but John Watson did not want his hands. He opened his mouth... nearly screaming as he wrenched out, "FUCK! I need your COCK, Sherlock! Fucking hit me with it, slap me with it, MAKE me eat it! Fuckkkk pleeeease!"

Sherlock's eyes widened. He was silent for a long moment before letting out a loud moan. _Shit._ 'That...' Sherlock chuckled 'you say I'm the whore. God, John, you are so beautiful, so twisted. You want it so badly.' Sherlock rammed his cock into John's face, making his head hit against the floor. 'Come on, eat it.' Sherlock grabbed John's hair and pulled him up, slamming his cock into John's beautiful face once more.

John groaned loudly, burying his face in the thickness of his flesh, arching off the floor and panting. Fuck. Now that he'd said it, the words came like a waterfall, flowing, pounding in his skull, propelling themselves off his tongue, unstoppable. "Fuck yes," he hissed, pleasurable explosions firing off in his brain. "Hit me with it.. please.. fuck please... slap me.. treat me like a whore.."

Those words were pure sex to Sherlock. His brain was hardwired to react to those words with a strong force. Sherlock shoved his cock in John's mouth, fucking him with a few hard thrusts before pulling out and whacking his painfully hard cock against John's cheeks. 'Fuck!' He bit out, a hand still holding onto John's hair, keeping his head upright. 'You are such a whore for my cock. You beg so easily. You want me so badly. I can make you do anything, you're mine. You're my slave. I. Own. You. Don't you ever forget it. Understand?'

"YES," John sighed in relief, the tears still falling as he jolted with every slap of that slippery, wet dick on his cheeks. He nearly shot again as Sherlock shoved it deep in his throat, pumping him wickedly, cruelly, and John hummed, starving for more. "Yes, yes, yes yes..." he whined, turning his face, letting the cock fall out of his mouth. He snapped at it with his teeth, wide eyes blinking up at Sherlock, hopeful for more punishment.

'Yes what?' Sherlock snapped, ramming deep inside John's throat, twisting a nipple viciously, slapping his cheek with the back of his hand. He pulled out of John again and just stared at him, panting slightly. 'You need to articulate, _bitch_.'

John's eyes dragged shut. His face was on fire. His throat was dry and sore. He was lying, naked on the bathroom floor, a tall, vicious man sitting on top of him, fucking his mouth and slapping him repeatedly... at John's own request. Distantly, he realized there was probably something fundamentally WRONG with him. But for now... "Yes... yes, I'm your bitch, Sherlock. I'm your slave, always have been, always will be, you own me. Now fuck my mouth with that cock because I FUCKING NEED IT."

'Fuck my mouth, PLEASE.' Sherlock spat, a nasty grin on his face. He was going to make John work for it.

John gritted his teeth, staring up angrily. "Please," he snapped, his hips rocking off the floor in his hunger.

'Please what?'

"PLEASE FUCK MY FUCKING MOUTH!" John screamed again, furious at himself for the tears that wet his cheeks. "PLEASE! Please! P..Please..." His words dissolved into broken begging, his head tossing on the floor. "Hit me with it again," he pleaded. "Please... Sherlock, please... I need you to hit me with it. I need it. Please. I want your cock to smack my face, make my mouth look for it."

Sherlock complied and slapped him with the hard length. His lover was being so good, after all. 'Suck it down, little slave.' Sherlock let go of John's hair and brought his hand down to twist John's other nipple. 'Go on.'

John didn't fight now. His cheeks, his forehead, his chin... everything stung from the abuse Sherlock's cock had inflicted on him, and he wanted it, oh yes, he wanted all of it. He sought it like a whimpering dog, mouth open wide, tongue lapping up the flavor, the taste and smell of his lover, and John began to suck frantically, his teeth coaxing, his eyes boring into Sherlock's. Delicious. Wonderful. Fantastic. Perfect. He smiled through the humiliation, one hand creeping down to lightly trace the lines of his own erection. He moaned around Sherlock's swollen flesh.

Sherlock slapped John's hand away as he tried pleasuring himself. 'After.' He managed to grate out. After he would let John take care of himself, let him toss before Sherlock's eyes, but not now. 'Suck HARDER.' Sherlock began to rock against him, thrusting his hips into John's eager mouth.

John obeyed. He had no fight left in him. He brought his hands to Sherlock's arse instead, encouraging the fast fucking of his raw mouth, and he let his fingers dive between those buttocks, finding Sherlock's stretched, abused hole, and John grunted as he shoved in two fingers from each hand, hard and swift.

Sherlock let out a little whimper as John's fingers forced their way into his entrance, he bucked harder in John's mouth, feeling the familiar coiling in his stomach, feeling that giddy sensation. 'Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!' He hissed out, throwing his head back and moaning. 'Harder! Harder! More fin..grs... haarderr' He rammed into John's mouth, quickly becoming undone.

John snarled around his cock, and pulled his fingers out for a moment, biting at the base of the shaft before ramming them back in, four from each hand, sliding them in as far as possible. He began to wiggle them, his head bobbing up and down as Sherlock began to shake. John dragged his tongue down the bulging vein, swirled it around the head, grinding out Sherlock's name.

'OH FUCK!' Sherlock screamed, tears pricking his eyes as John's fingers abused his arse, as his teeth bit down on Sherlock's cock. And Sherlock was cumming, thrashing about wildly, thick, pearly white strands of seed shooting down John's throat. Over and over and over, he kept shuddering, riding the orgasm, riding the pleasure. 'John! Fuck! Oh shiiiit! Johnnnnnn!' Sherlock babbled, grabbing onto John's head to hold himself steady, arching inward, his head resting against the hands clutching John's hair. His lover's fingers still moving inside him, making him cum harder and longer than he ever had in his entire life.

John's mouth dropped open as Sherlock shot into him, and his eyes rolled back in his head. "F...Fuuccckkkgggrrgghl..." He choked and gasped as the semen hit his throat, and then his eyes flew open, and he arched beautifully, his back completely off the floor as a second orgasm uncoiled in his gut, born of sheer arousal, from Sherlock's domination, from his cum in John's mouth, from his hands and his cock and his lovely, rolling voice. John sobbed through it, cum dribbling from his mouth, his body pulsing. "Sh...Sherloooooockk..."

Sherlock slumped down, his chest heaving. His arms were shaking as they held him steady, his hands splayed on the floor on either side of John's head. Sherlock's head was bowed and he was shuddering with the force and realization of what he'd just done. 'Fuccccccck,' he moaned out, still sitting on John's chest. He'd let his emotions get the better of him, he'd fucked John, he'd fucked himself _on_ John, he'd enjoyed it so much. He had dominated his lover thoroughly without even putting his cock inside his arse once. 'Fuuuuccccck.'

John lay perfectly still, his face turned away. He swallowed the last of Sherlock's seed, the taste acidic on his tongue, and he breathed deeply through his nose. The tears were drying. He let himself feel... feel the cold on his naked skin, feel the heat of Sherlock's body, feel the nerve endings in his face begin to throb. He would be bruised. He wouldn't be able to work the next day.

Sherlock rolled off him, not looking at his bruised lover, his shoulders still slumped in. He did not know how to feel about this. He had enjoyed it, John had enjoyed it, but... had he gone too far? Had he been too rough? Sherlock sighed and drew his knees up to his chest, resting a tired head on them. One thing was for sure, Sherlock was definitely no longer bored. 'Are you okay?' He asked wearily, his eyes slowly beginning to flutter. Damn it. He should have tried to sleep last night; he shouldn't have worked on that experiment all damn night. He shouldn't have played his violin until 4 in the morning.

John nodded silently. He lay for a moment longer before pushing himself up, slowly, and turning on the shower. He climbed inside the shower curtain, sitting on the floor, letting the water hit him in the back. "Coming?" he asked quietly. He peeked around the shower curtain at the sleepy detective. "Come on."

Sherlock stirred, getting a little wobbly to his feet and walking slowly to the shower. He stepped in and felt the hot spray on his skin and sighed. Sherlock leaned against John for a few seconds, hugging him briefly before standing tall and running his hands through the wet curls on his head. 'Good idea,' he smiled at John. 'I needed a shower, especially after that...'

"Yeah." John frowned, still seated, sloshing his hands in the water. He chewed on his lip, wincing a bit as the pain reminded him that his lips were cracked...chewed... broken. "Sherlock?"

'Hmmmm?' Sherlock asked, leaning his head back and allowing the water to spray his face completely.

John watched him, his face troubled. He reached up to dance his fingertips lightly over the bruises. "Why do we... do this?" he asked softly. "Why do we like it?" The pain. He wanted to say it, but it was unnecessary. Sherlock knew.

Sherlock looked down at John for a long time before he knelt down and caressed John's cheek with his thumb. 'We've been through so much, John, more than any ordinary person. We've seen the other side, we've seen the pain, we can't live without it now. We can't live like those other people with their boring boxed lives, their boring plain sex. We need to live on the edge, you and I. There's nothing wrong with it, there's nothing bad about it. We're always searching for that new high. It's not something we can help or go against.' Sherlock kissed John's lips lightly, pulling his lover's head to his breast and stroking his back. 'We're different.'

John sniffed. It was true. It was perhaps more true than even Sherlock realized. He smiled, nuzzling in and sighing. "You're such a cock whore," he muttered, sliding his arms up to grasp at his waist and pull him closer.

Sherlock snorted, hugging John tighter and closing his eyes. 'Just as much as you are, John.'


End file.
